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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23004742">If I Am A Killer, Too</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipjuly/pseuds/vipjuly'>vipjuly</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood Kink, CEO Castiel (Supernatural), Canon Compliant, Demon Castiel (Supernatural), Demon Cure (Supernatural), Demon Dean Winchester, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hitchhiking, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Mark of Cain (Supernatural), Psychological Thriller, Serial Killer Castiel (Supernatural), Similar Plots - Different Timelines, Slow Burn, Soulmates, The First Blade (Supernatural), mass shootings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 09:28:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>21,240</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23004742</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipjuly/pseuds/vipjuly</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Walking on the highway with my thumb out;<br/>Everyone is passing but you slowed down;<br/>And my heart is telling me to turn 'round;<br/>But my body wants me to stay</p><p>Looking sweet but boy I know you're sneaky;<br/>With trophies in your back seat;<br/>All the ones that came before were easy;<br/>...Before you met me.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>235</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>If I Am A Killer, Too</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>-some of the content may be triggering, please read the tags.<br/>-basically, a lot of people die at the hands of castiel and dean in various ways. this is not a warm &amp; fuzzy story.<br/>-there are a lot of minor details i've worked into this story. it should be read in one go if you can manage it. this is a different writing style than what you're used to from me.<br/>-i am not religious nor do i claim to have in depth knowledge of the bible or its teachings. while writing this story i read some specific passages that related to the content. pastor jim has his own voice and his own views when it comes to relating evil to the modern world.<br/>-this work is inspired by the song <a href="https://open.spotify.com/album/1vtlN8df30JpDJhvy7e3Yy">"killer"</a> by valerie broussard. i recommend you put it on repeat as you read.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A car drives through a puddle of water leftover from an evening rain, sending it splashing up against Castiel’s legs and causing him to dance away from the white line on the road with a scowl. He flips off the car’s brake lights, lets out a little sigh, then adjusts the backpack slung over his shoulder. </p><p><i>Hitchhike across the country,</i> he thinks to himself. <i>Life is boring. Shake it up.</i> </p><p>He’s starting to have a few different feelings than the ones that led him and his thumb to go up and down the highways of America.</p><p><i> “That’s a little wild, Clarence, even for you,”</i> Meg had said.</p><p><i> “You don’t know what I’m capable of,”</i> Castiel had replied. </p><p>Another car passes. Castiel’s arms rarely tire anymore of holding his thumb up for drivers; he was already fit before beginning this journey, but he thinks that now his forearms and shoulders are perhaps disproportionate to the rest of his body. His thighs, too, from all the walking. His physical body stays alert and trim, ready to jog or climb or do anything that will advance him on his journey. His dark, messy hair hangs past his ears and curls against the curve of his throat, always clean thanks to the money he has at his disposal to make sure he could hit a motel whenever his body ends up tiring and he actually needs some sleep. He’s clean all around; hair, skin, clothes. He’s a hitchhiker, not a vagrant. </p><p>Tonight seems to be against him. According to his map the nearest motel is still fifteen miles away. He has a sleeping bag prepared in case he has to sleep under the stars, but if he has the option on a chilly, wet night like this, he’d rather be in the comfort of scratchy sheets and flickering lights. </p><p>Finally a car slows down. Its engine roars through the night, loud as a freight truck, wheels quiet as it pulls up next to Castiel on the shoulder. Stopping his strides, Castiel bends to look at the driver through the passenger window. The first thing he notes is a beautiful smile flashing beautiful teeth, sharp around the edges and yet soft in the lips. A car honks as it passes but neither Castiel nor this driver flinch; the passing headlights illuminate stunning eyes of an indiscernible color, something familiar passing between them. </p><p>The man gestures to the door. Castiel cranks it open with a <i>crrrrk!</i>, noting that the car is one-hundred percent vintage and completely original. He tests the window crank to make sure it’s up all the way, then makes a cursory glance to the backseat. </p><p>In the movies, they say “check the backseat to make sure there’s not a murderer back there”.</p><p>A bloody knife is partially hidden by a shredded, bloody shirt. There’s more shoes in the backseat than this man probably owns, and Castiel would bet money that this handsome stranger doesn’t wear a size six woman’s heel. Very slowly Castiel settles in the passenger seat, his body tensed to flee as his gaze returns to the strangers’. </p><p>“I’m Dean,” the man says, throwing his car into gear and peeling off with his tires screeching on the pavement. </p><p>Castiel takes stock. The car is all manual, the windows and the locks. He could open his door and exit the vehicle at sixty miles an hour and risk a wicked road rash and maybe a broken bone or two. He could reach into the backseat and get the knife. He could slide over into the handsome man’s lap, whisper in his ear… </p><p>“Got a name, buddy?” Dean asks, his tone light. His eyes flicker black between the flashes of oncoming headlights. </p><p>Castiel’s shoulder unclench, his body angled slightly towards Dean as he takes off his backpack and sets it in the footwell between his muddy boots. “Cas.” </p><p>“Well, Cas,” Dean’s teeth seem to elongate in the moonlight, “tonight’s your lucky night.” </p><p>“Lucky me,” Castiel says a bit dryly. </p><p>“I saw how many cars passed you. So many people are afraid these days, y’know? ‘Don’t pick up a stranger off the highway- he could be a serial killer!’” He chuckles and shifts his grip on the steering wheel, one hand on the corded leather as his elbow rests on his door. “No one ever really thinks about the type o’ people who drive down deserted highways in the middle of the night.” </p><p>Whispers filter through Castiel’s ears, the hair on his neck standing on end. With his body angled the way it is it’s easy to let his eyes slip to the backseat. From the footwell in the back the shoes are whispering, conspiring, crying, panicking. </p><p>“Not a talker, huh?” Dean asks. His eyes are hot green, trees burning in the summer, the gold in the center consuming flames.</p><p>Castiel doesn’t answer. A soft, delicate weeping emanates from the backseat, the blood spatter streaming in crimson rivers over tan leather seats. </p><p>“That’s alright,” the man says with a shrug. “You wanna listen to some tunes?”</p><p>He doesn’t wait for Castiel’s answer before reaching towards the radio, turning a knob and clicking a button under the cassette player. AC/DC plays quietly through the car’s speakers, guitar riffs covering up the pained and panicked disembodied voices from the backseat. </p><p>“You tryna hit the motel up ahead?” Dean’s finger lifts off the steering wheel to point to a glowing <i>8</i> in the distance. </p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>“Me too,” Dean says, making a show of stretching his legs. Closer to civilization there are street lights populating the highway, their artificial yellow beams highlight the black streaks of dried blood on Dean’s pants. “Where you comin’ from?” </p><p>Castiel’s gaze turns out the window. </p><p>“You got the look of Illinois about you.”</p><p>His blood runs cold. He stiffens but doesn’t react otherwise, sending Dean what he hopes is an unamused glance. “I wasn’t aware rednecks had the ability to tell where people are from just by looking at them.” </p><p>Sucking in a breath Dean laughs, a beautiful and breathtaking laugh. “Shoot, Cas. Don’t pull any punches.” </p><p>“I won’t,” Castiel says, turning his gaze out the window once more. </p><p>Dean pulls into the parking lot of the <i>Super 8</i>. He turns the car off, wipes his hands on his crusty pants, then turns a heated look towards Castiel. “Wanna room together? Looks like you could blow off some steam.”</p><p>“I am not a roadside prostitute,” Castiel says. He opens the door, reaching for his bag. Dean doesn’t stop him. “Thank you for the ride.” The vintage door creaks shut behind him after he gets out, the pressure of Dean’s gaze on his back threatening to buckle his legs. </p><p>Inside the lobby a bored teen tells Castiel the rates. Just as he reaches into his pocket for his wallet an arm slips possessively around his waist, the scent of cologne and stale blood infiltrating his senses as Dean leans in to press his nose into the crook of Castiel’s neck. He inhales deeply, his tongue slides over the tendon, and he murmurs, “Better get two doubles.” </p><p>The teen looks unimpressed as he grabs a different key from the collection on the wall, exchanging it for the money Castiel hands out. Dean’s tongue feels like a hot poker against his skin, searing his capillaries and leaving a brand behind. Dean sends the kid a sunny smile, takes the key, then heads off towards the rooms. Collecting his breath, and his patience, Castiel sends the kid a tight smile and then follows after Dean, noting the man grabbed a duffel bag, holding the strap in his free hand. </p><p>Room 106 isn’t anything special. Dean throws his duffel on one of the beds and immediately starts pulling his shirt over his head by reaching to the back of his collar; this action pulls all of his muscles tight and flexed, shoulder blades working, abs defined and hips sharp as he pulls the sweaty shirt off. His head pops free and under the harsh fluorescent lighting Castiel sees freckled skin and flushed cheeks, Dean looking quite boyish and handsome as he sends Castiel a smile over his shoulder. </p><p>“Wanna save some water?” </p><p>“You’re filthy,” Castiel replies. He sets his backpack on the other bed, toeing out of his shoes. “You first.” </p><p>“You a neat freak, Cas?” Dean asks casually, though there’s a nearly undetectable barb in his voice. </p><p>Castiel looks at Dean plaintively from where he’s sitting on his bed. </p><p>The light above Dean’s head flickers, his eyes blackening for a fraction of a second before returning to normal. Shrugging, Dean moves into the bathroom without another word, the fan and the tap turning on as he shuts the door. </p><p>In the blessed silence Castiel contemplates his options. He stands up to poke around Dean’s duffel bag as carefully as possible, making sure not to displace anything. He has no weapons hidden anywhere. The keys to his car are also missing, likely in his pants pocket in the bathroom. Either Dean is smarter than he looks, or he’s exactly as ditzy as he lets on. Castiel quietly opens drawers, looking for something, anything other than a bible and a cheap coffee maker outfitted with shitty coffee and paper cups. </p><p>Coming up empty, Castiel looks at the room door, then his backpack, then the bathroom door, then the room door again. He should leave. He saw Dean’s backseat, he knows what aggressive blood spray looks like. The warning signals in his head are muted, but then again… the warning signals Dean surely got seem to not be strong enough to deter him, either.</p><p>Unlacing his boots Castiel puts them neatly by the door so as not to track anymore mud into the room. He rifles through his backpack to pull out a clean t-shirt and a fresh pair of boxers, setting them on the bed and then sitting down next to them. He puts his backpack on the floor. He stares at the phone in the room. </p><p><i> “What? You’re crazy, you idiot. You’re asking to be kidnapped and murdered!”</i> Meg had yelled.</p><p><i> “I’m asking to be completely alone and without distractions,”</i> Castiel had replied as he handed Meg his cell phone.</p><p>The bathroom door cracks open, steam billowing up near the ceiling. Dean comes out shortly after, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his lethal hip bones, the bow in his legs drawing Castiel’s gaze immediately. Dean sends him a smirk before opening up his duffel, looking through his clothes.</p><p>“Left ya some hot water.” </p><p>Castiel grabs his clean clothes, not saying a word as he passes Dean to enter the bathroom. He closes the door, exhales slowly, then locks the door for good measure. He undresses and puts his clean clothes on the sink counter, stepping under a nice, hot spray and momentarily forgetting about the stress of Dean being in the other room. </p><p>The peace doesn’t last. Dean starts singing a Led Zeppelin song very loud and very off-key. </p><p>He makes quick work of his shower. Hair clean, body clean, face clean. He turns off the tap and steps out, using the other full sized towel to dry himself off. He dresses in his boxers and t-shirt, folds up his dirty clothes, then exits the bathroom with the towel draped over his shoulders. Dean is lounging on his bed with the television remote in his hand, blessedly not singing, but clicking through the television channels idly while his eyes follow Castiel. </p><p>Castiel puts his dirty clothes in a smaller compartment in his backpack. He leaves his damp jeans out, spreading them over the little table under the window so they can dry. He needs to do laundry. Aside from being wet from the knee down, this pair is technically still clean. He’ll visit a laundromat tomorrow. He puts his backpack on one of the chairs at the table then gets onto his bed, slipping between the sheets and burrowing under the heavy comforter, drawing the blankets up to his chin. All the lights are off save for the television, which Dean has muted. </p><p>Closing his eyes, Castiel focuses on his breathing. He knows better than to fall asleep with Dean in the room, but he can’t afford to miss a night of rest. Meditation will have to do. </p><p>An hour later Dean’s snores saw logs hard enough Castiel would have been woken up, anyway. </p><p>Quietly getting out of bed Castiel peers over Dean’s sleeping body, making sure he’s actually sleeping and not just faking it. Finding Dean actually passed out, Castiel climbs back into his bed and sets an alarm on his phone for one hour, putting it on vibrate and placing it beneath his pillow. </p><p>An hour power-nap, and then he’ll leave the motel.</p><p>--</p><p>Something wakes Castiel up. At first he thinks it’s his alarm, but there’s no vibration happening under his pillow. Frowning and taking a moment to slowly open his eyes, Castiel’s ears strain.</p><p>Something… </p><p>Whispering. </p><p>The whispering from the backseat of Dean’s car is directly in his ear. </p><p>Eyes flying open and head turning, Castiel sucks in a gasp when he sees Dean inches from his nose. Dean’s eyes flash black before he climbs up onto Castiel’s bed with inhuman speed, straddling Castiel’s body and putting his hands on his throat. He presses Castiel down into the bed, Castiel’s limbs restricted by the heavy blankets, the weight of Dean’s body on his pelvis sending an array of sensations through Castiel’s nervous system. His hands fly up, fingers grasping Dean’s wrists to try and alleviate the pressure on his windpipe. Dean’s smile is wicked, green eyes catching the moonlight as he does his best to choke Castiel to death. </p><p>Bucking his hips, it takes three times to finally get Dean to imbalance. His grip on Castiel’s throat falters. Castiel’s hands slip between Dean’s forearms to smack them outwards, Dean whuffing out in surprise as his torso falls forward without support. Castiel meets him halfway, headbutting him in the nose. Dean lets out a yelp of surprise, blood drips down Castiel’s face. A brief grapple has them tumbling to the floor in a tangle of sheets and limbs, Castiel throwing an elbow to Dean’s injured nose, Dean’s fist landing in Castiel’s kidney. </p><p>On top of Dean, sitting on his thighs and holding his wrists above his head on the dingy motel carpet, Castiel bends over him, breathing heavily. Dean just smirks up at him, licking the blood off of his lips, blowing a little kiss. </p><p>Headlights pass through the windows. </p><p>Castiel’s eyes flash black. </p><p>Dean moans, trying to buck his hips up. </p><p>Adjusting his grip to have both of Dean’s wrists in his fingers, Castiel’s other hand grips under Dean’s jaw, palm on his throat, pinky up to one ear and his thumb at the other. His face is covered in blood, his nose bleed smearing and spreading and showing no signs of stopping. Castiel’s fingers slip around in the liquid before finding purchase, forcing Dean’s head to tip back, exposing his throat. Leaning down, Castiel drags his tongue along the length of Dean’s stubbly jaw, sucking on the bolt by the ear, before parting his lips to whisper. </p><p>“You can’t scare me.” </p><p>He lets go of Dean completely and totally, standing up and broadening the distance between them. Dean sits up slowly, coughing and wiping his face, letting out a few raspy chuckles. He uses his shirt to mop up his face, staying on the floor as he looks up at Castiel. Castiel grabs his bag, opens the door, and hears Dean’s raspy voice follow him out into the night:</p><p>“Good.”</p><p>--</p><p>Castiel gets a ride from a kind woman named Daphne. She takes him two towns over, on her way to some sort of church function. The leather of her seats burns Castiel’s skin where it touches so he puts on a sweater despite the sun shining. The cross hanging from her windshield makes Castiel’s vision blur, so he puts on his sunglasses. She talks and talks and talks, about nothing in particular, thankfully never expecting Castiel to respond. He answers a few basic questions about who he is and where he’s from. She never digs. She has an abundance of friendly smiles and advice, but when she drops Castiel off in front of a bank in the town he requested to stop in, it’s him that leans into the rolled down passenger window to impart some advice.</p><p>“Let me be the last hitchhiker you pick up.” </p><p>She sends him a bit of a quizzical smile, but then nods. “The Lord told me to help you.” </p><p>“Even the Lord can lead you astray.” </p><p>He watches her Cadillac drive off. An engine roars and rumbles up to his backside with whispers on the breeze and he rolls his eyes, turning around to see Dean leaning against the front bumper of his impala, hands in the pockets of his jeans, a devilish smile on his features as he regards Castiel.</p><p>“Not your type?” </p><p>Castiel’s eyes narrow. “None of your business.”</p><p>Dean shrugs, looking over Castiel’s shoulder thoughtfully. “It’s good to be choosy.”</p><p>Silence. Castiel adjusts his backpack, still glaring. </p><p>“Wanna get lunch?” Dean nods across the street to a greasy spoon diner. </p><p>Saying nothing, Castiel turns to start walking over to the diner. He hears Dean curse behind him, hears the jangle of keys and the locking of doors, smirking to himself as Dean jogs to catch up. They cross the intersection together, enter the diner together, and sit in a booth across from each other. They both order coffee - Dean, cream and sugar; Cas, black - then settle back against their booths and stare at each other. </p><p>Well, Castiel stares while Dean fidgets around. He dumps sugar into his coffee, puts so much creamer in the coffee that it goes from black to nearly white, then taps his foot on the floor. Sighing, Castiel looks out the window towards the street, watching cars pass by. The waitress comes, her eyes widening more and more with how much food Dean orders. She looks at Castiel, slightly stunned; he orders a stack of pancakes and asks politely for honey.</p><p>The waitress leaves.</p><p>Dean slurps his coffee.</p><p>“Were you… busy this morning?” Castiel forces himself to ask. He hates small talk.</p><p>Dean’s response is a boyish smile. “Aw. Jealous?” </p><p>Again, Castiel’s eyes narrow. “You have nothing for me to be jealous of.” </p><p>“Considering you were in a car with a hot chick for five hours and told her to stop adopting strays, I’d say my day was a bit more productive than yours.” </p><p>Castiel puts both hands around his coffee mug. “That’s none of your business.” </p><p>Shrugging, Dean lounges casually in his booth, throwing an arm across the back as he smirks at Castiel. The black t-shirt he’s wearing stretches taut against his chest, the leather jacket a bit large on his frame. “Then what I did this morning is none of <i>your</i> business, either.” </p><p>When their food comes, they eat in silence. Dean seems fairly oblivious, but Castiel knows better. He eats his pancakes neatly and cleanly while Dean gorges himself, having ordered a mix of breakfast and lunch. Castiel settles the bill, which causes Dean to splutter and follow him out of the diner when he leaves without a word. </p><p>Spinning on heel once in the parking lot, Castiel puts a finger on Dean’s sternum. Dean’s nose and right eye are purple from their tussle last week, the discoloration bringing out the beautiful green of his eyes. “Leave me alone.”</p><p>Dean <i>pouts</i>. “Why?” </p><p>“Because I don’t need you,” Castiel says, poking his finger into Dean’s chest again. “You’re annoying, loud, and lack manners. I’ve no interest in keeping your company. And,” he leans in, their noses almost brushing as he growls, “you tried to kill me.” </p><p>Dean’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he says, “C’mon, man. Ever heard of foreplay?” </p><p>“If I see you again, Dean,” Castiel pulls away. He tightens the straps on his backpack, turning around and calling over his shoulder, “I’ll kill you.” </p><p>Dean doesn’t follow him.</p><p>--</p><p><i> “What are you even going to do? See the biggest ball of yarn? Find Bigfoot?”</i> Meg had asked. </p><p><i> “I can take my hobbies on the road,”</i> Castiel had replied. </p><p>It’s been three weeks since Castiel met (and left) Dean. He’s currently in the passenger seat of an attractive British man’s car, forcing himself to not look bored as the man drones on about why American cars are garbage and everyone should own a BMW. Castiel thinks about Dean’s classic American car, its sleek lines and rumbling engine and fine, blood-spattered leather seats. Upon entering the car the man had given Castiel a rather lascivious once-over, a look that Castiel professionally batted his eyes coyly at. </p><p>“Pull over here,” Castiel says, pointing to a rest stop in a wooded area.</p><p>The man pulls over eagerly, letting out a noise of delight when they pull into an empty parking area. He glances around, though, checking the navigation on his dashboard with a little frown. “Are you sure you won’t let me drive you further? There’s really nothing out here, doll. I haven’t seen a car for twenty miles.”</p><p>“That’s the idea,” Castiel says.</p><p>The man sends him a confused glance, which is immediately erased when Castiel unbuckles and closes the distance between them, grabbing something from his backpack. </p><p>“This will be quick,” Castiel promises, his voice low and intimate.</p><p>“I don’t mind,” the man replies. </p><p>“Good.” Castiel plunges a knife into the man’s heart. He sputters and gurgles, spasming and jerking as he tries to grab Castiel’s wrist and dislodge the knife. His fingers slip, bloody and weak, strained and panicked noises leaving his mouth before his body movements slow down, the life leaving his eyes as he slumps into his seat. </p><p>Pulling away, leaving the knife where it landed, Castiel looks over the man thoughtfully, before saying seriously, “I’m not a prostitute.” </p><p>He yanks the knife out of the man’s chest. He would have liked to drag this one out longer, but this guy deserved to die more than he deserved to be toyed with. One less pompous douchebag in the world. He takes a brand new handkerchief out of a pack in his backpack, wipes the knife clean, then puts it back in his bag. Opening the passenger side door he sets his backpack on the ground, then opens the glovebox to root through it. </p><p>Smirking to himself, he pulls out a package of Armor-All and Clorox wipes. These rich assholes always make sure their cars are in pristine condition. </p><p>Using the cleaning supplies he wipes down any evidence of himself from the passenger seat. He leaves the man a bloody mess, though, knowing that whomever discovers him will be in for the shock of their life. He’s always been a little theatrical. A guilty pleasure.</p><p>Satisfied that all of his DNA is gone, Castiel leaves the cleaning supplies on the passenger seat and shuts the door with his hip. He picks up his backpack, walks out towards the highway, then starts walking along the shoulder with his thumb out.</p><p>--</p><p>Cutting through the woods is never a good idea, but right now it’s the best option. The last town Castiel passed through had a news bulletin running on nearly every television, advising the public to be wary of picking up roadside travelers. He’s been able to move through the states undetected as of yet, but since it’s the height of summer, people are typically advised no matter what. Crime goes up in the summer for a reason. Castiel, personally, hates the cold and does his best to stay out of it. </p><p>He has a lot going for him, though. By keeping clean and staying genial-looking he’s more likely to be picked up by a passing motorist. He can keep pleasant conversation going as long as he needs to, and seventy-five percent of the drivers he encounters drive away with their lives firmly in their hands. </p><p>He’s not a monster.</p><p>The lush woods of the Pacific Northwest are dense. It’s taken him a little over a month and a half to hitchhike from Pontiac, Illinois to here; mostly because, to Meg’s amusement should she find out, Castiel <i>has</i> been visiting tourist traps. In every town and city he passes through he makes sure to stop by every museum listed in the registry, makes sure to find at least one mom and pop restaurant to dine in, and also makes time to stop by a homeless shelter to lend a hand. </p><p>He’s been on foot for four days now. In his backpack dry goods, protein bars, and electrolyte packets mixed with stream water have been keeping him going. He’s never full but he’s never starving, either, the balance delicate. When the sun goes down he finds the most sturdy tree in the near vicinity, using his strength and agility to climb up the branches to find a good spot to post up for the night. He uses his sleeping bag as a blanket, ties himself to the tree with his hemp rope, then debates between meditation and sleep. He has a paperback novel crammed into his backpack but reading by moonlight can be difficult when the tree cover breaks up the beams. </p><p>Tonight is the last night he’ll be sleeping in the trees. Tomorrow he’ll follow his map and compass back to a road, and while he won’t flag down a vehicle, he’ll be able to hit the next town by tomorrow night so he can have a real meal and sleep in a real bed. </p><p>Closing his eyes as he settles on his branch, he folds his hands over his lap. The sound of nature around him is always calming. Owls hooting, insects clicking, water dripping. In the distance a coyote howls. Fifty yards away some brush moves. Exhaling slowly, Castiel hones in on all of these noises. It’s peaceful. Beautiful. He wonders if he should settle down somewhere nearby… call his road trip over and done and put down roots. </p><p>Forty-five yards away there’s a whisper in the branches. </p><p>He’s not hurting for money. He was once described as an ‘eclectic millionaire’ by the local tabloids. He’d managed to stay out of national news thankfully, preventing his face from being plastered in the trashy magazines, but the locals of his hometown knew who he was. They talked about him plenty. The handsome bachelor rich guy who barely spoke at parties and chose to conduct all of his fancy business from his ivory tower.</p><p>Twenty-five yards, a twig snaps. </p><p>Quiet as a mouse, Castiel unties himself from the tree, rolling up his sleeping bag and attaching it to his bag. He makes sure all the pouches and closures are secure. He tightens the laces of his boots. Zips up his sweater tooth by tooth. Blue eyes look into the darkness, the thick canopy of the trees only letting in slivers of moonlight. </p><p>Ten yards. </p><p>Exhaling long and slow, Castiel holds his breath, gaze turned down towards the ground.</p><p>Dean stares up at him from the bottom of the tree, eyes black and teeth white. </p><p>Castiel swings from his tree to the next on the thicker branches, setting off the chase. He swings, drops, twists. Swings, drops, twists. His feet hit the ground and he takes off at a sprint, familiar with this neck of the woods thanks to his earlier scout. Dean’s slower, grunting and cursing as he dodges branches and loses his footing over tree roots. Heart pumping, Castiel leaps over a mossy, fallen tree, his palm slipping slightly on the damp green. His ankle rolls but he presses on, gritting his teeth through the pain. If he can make it to the road he should be fine. Either a car will drive by, or he’ll at least be on even footing to take Dean in a fight. </p><p>It doesn’t take long to realize he’s at a disadvantage, running like this. The road is four miles away. He won’t make it. </p><p>He ducks behind a tree, regulating his breathing. His blood rushes to his ears but he lets out his breath in controlled increments until it settles, able to hear Dean closing in on him. Counting his footsteps, Castiel waits until the last possible moment and then shoots his arm out, successfully clotheslining Dean across the jugular. Dean falls to the ground with a surprised yelp, reaching up to try and fend off Castiel, but it’s too late. Castiel’s sitting on Dean’s chest, knife against his throat, fever flushing his body as he realizes Dean has a knife against his ribs, the tip of it dangerously sharp through Castiel’s hoodie. </p><p>Licking his lips, Dean looks up at Castiel through his lashes even as he pants wildly. The forest around them brings out his eyes, moss and leaves and flower stems. Dean’s still smiling, his chest rising and falling rapidly with his breaths. The tips of their knives press into each other, a tease; Dean licks his lips, the first to withdraw his knife. </p><p>“My, my,” Dean says, his voice deep and melodious, a far cry from the off-key singing he’d subjected Castiel to weeks ago, “what sharp claws you have.” </p><p>Castiel flicks his knife against Dean’s throat just to spite him, nicking his stubble to draw blood. He stands, putting his knife in the holster on his belt, stepping away from Dean and bending to brush the damp earth from the knees of his jeans. Dean doesn’t stand, just sits up a bit and leans back on his hands, watching Castiel closely. </p><p>“Seems to me like someone’s avoiding populated areas,” he says. </p><p>Saying nothing, Castiel unzips his hoodie to allow some cool air to filter over his skin and under his pits. </p><p>“I mean, I figure a guy with your persuasions doesn’t wanna ever be noticed, on principle alone,” Dean continues. “But you seem especially intent on not letting people get too good a look at ya. Or too long of one, either. Longest you been in a car with the same person is seven hours.” </p><p>Annoyance prickles at Castiel. “No matter how you’ve gathered this information, I will repeat myself from before: it’s none of your business.” </p><p>“See,” Dean’s smile widens a bit, “‘Cas’ is kind of a weird name, ain’t it? Gotta be short for somethin’. And people like us - like you n’ me - we’re always lookin’ for the next horse outta town for a reason.” Castiel’s jaw tenses. Dean stands up, idly brushing himself off. He doesn’t have any hiking supplies on him, just the shirt and coat on his back and his sturdy work boots. “Always onto the next thing ‘cause the thing before wasn’t good enough.” </p><p>“How did you find me?” Castiel asks, suddenly wary. Wherever Dean parked, he had to hike to find Castiel. He’s only dirty from their scuffle here, otherwise there’s nary a hair out of place on his handsome head. </p><p>“Doin’ research is somethin’ I fuckin’ hate, man, but phew, sometimes it pays off!” Dean suddenly crows. His smile sharpens around the corners, those pretty eyes flashing black before glittering gold. “Castiel Novak, runaway millionaire.” </p><p>Doing his best to not show any sort of reaction, Castiel’s fingers flex minutely. Dean figured out who he was. How many other people that have helped Castiel have also figured it out? Did any of them bother? Would they recognize his face on the news? The last time he checked the internet for any articles about him the most recent one had been published a week after he <i> “mysteriously disappeared, his personal assistant Meg Masters assuring the public that he was taking a sabbatical and not to be disturbed”</i>. No other traces of him since he left his home have been documented anywhere. </p><p>“You’ve got such a pretty head, doin’ all that thinking,” Dean croons, taking a step towards Castiel and entering his space. Their toes touch, their noses scant inches apart. “Really wish you’d let me have a taste.” </p><p>Scowling, Castiel pushes Dean’s chest, causing the man to stumble back a bit. Instead of looking put out Dean just lets out a little laugh, lifting his hands in supplication. </p><p>“I like the chase, baby. Tell you what: as long as you evade me, you’ll have your peace. But the second I catch you fair and square…” Dean’s pink tongue traces over one of his sharp canines as he smirks. “You’re mine.” </p><p>Castiel frowns, then blinks.</p><p>Dean is gone. </p><p>The road is three miles away. </p><p>Castiel puts as much distance between himself and the woods as he can.</p><p>--</p><p>Since Castiel hadn’t brought his phone he relies on libraries to keep himself updated. He tries to stop in one every few days to catch up on the news so he has a vague idea as to what’s happening in the world he left behind, but he doesn’t put too much effort into it usually. America is corrupt, the world is burning- checking the news can be quite a burnout so if he can’t make it to a library he doesn’t necessarily count it as a loss.</p><p>It’s been three days since he saw Dean in the woods; today when Castiel walks into a library and sits down at one of their computers, he has some specific things in mind. </p><p>All he knows about Dean is his name, and that he didn’t refute Castiel when he called him a redneck. The impala has Kansas plates on it, but Castiel had noticed that the tabs had been fudged, which lets him know that he can’t even run a search on the car because it’d come back with a fake registration or not at all. ‘Dean’ is a fairly popular name, so he’s unsure about checking that out, either. </p><p>He thinks of the whispers coming from Dean’s backseat. The size six woman’s high heel surrounded by Converse sneakers, loafers, and work boots. </p><p>He’ll start there. </p><p>Thankfully, though a bit sadly, highway murders and abductions are documented rather well. They tend to hit the news, families grieving about the son, daughter, husband, or wife that went out and never came home. </p><p>Thankfully, though a bit ruefully, Castiel knows exactly what to look for. </p><p>At first he does a cursory search for himself. None of the places he’s hit since leaving Illinois have been published, which he counts as a good thing; at least, none of the victims have made it to a more formidable news source than the local paper. Ensuring that his own trail is hidden, he then starts in the south. </p><p>Dean’s accent isn’t twangy, so he eliminates Texas. His accent is a bit of drawl, so he ticks Louisiana off as a ‘maybe’. Alabama and Kentucky accents are nowhere near Dean’s elegant inelegance, so they’re off the board. Missouri and Kansas have an interesting lilt to them, and perhaps blended in with Louisiana… </p><p>He’s narrowed it down. He has no idea how prolific Dean is, <i>if</i> he’s prolific, or how long he’s been at it. His eyes are black and he can apparently teleport so Castiel’s unsure if he can even leave a trail at all. </p><p>After two hours of clicking around, something catches his eye. A house fire ten years ago left a husband and two sons behind. Shortly after the house fire the husband drank himself to death. One of the sons dropped off the radar. The other is currently successfully enrolled in an unspecified university, being raised by his uncle. What catches Castiel’s attention is the missing brother. Friends and relatives said that the boy just up and disappeared; some suspected drugs, some suspected a name change and a move to a different city, some even said he went down a ‘darker’ path. </p><p>A missing persons’ report was filed for Dean Winchester eight years ago. </p><p>The boy in the picture, sixteen years old and smiling prettily for the camera, with freckles and green eyes and soft lips… is Dean. </p><p>The lights in the library flicker. Castiel looks up, frowning. The power to his computer turns off. The chatter and buzz of patrons picks up in intensity as people try to figure out why the power is surging. </p><p>The whole building plunges into darkness.</p><p>The whispers creep up the back of his neck.</p><p>In the reflection of the black monitor, Castiel sees Dean standing behind him. </p><p>He moves just in time to avoid the bullet, the gunshot blasting next to his ear drum and rattling his brain, the computer monitor flying off the desk in pieces. People start screaming and panicking, Castiel’s own heart stuttering as he flings himself out of his chair to the floor. He snatches his backpack and rolls under the next desk, scrambling to get as far away from Dean as possible. </p><p>“A little too close for home,” Dean’s voice cajoles.</p><p>Another gunshot rings out. A body thuds to the floor, Castiel looking around to try and see who fell. From where he is he doesn’t have a good view of anything. He’s also a sitting duck. Dean’s manic laughter rings out, a bit farther away than before. Castiel gets on his hands and knees, swerves between some desk legs, then stands up to dart behind a bookshelf. </p><p>A woman is sobbing a few shelves over. </p><p>“Please!” She pleads. “Not my son, he’s only twelve!” </p><p>Castiel barely flinches when the gun goes off twice. He uses the commotion of other people screaming and crying to make his way through the shelves. He only has his knife. Dean’s never had a gun when they met, but Castiel knows that the impala holds more secrets than his victims. There has to be a way for him to get a leg up. </p><p>A leg up.</p><p>Castiel looks at the tops of the bookshelves. They’re tall enough to allow him to be on top of them without being seen, but short enough to have a nice gap between the top and the ceiling. </p><p>“Y’know Cas, you should really practice what you preach,” Dean’s voice carries from wherever he is. “What’s that you always like to say?” </p><p>Another gunshot. A man shrieks in pain, but is still clearly alive as he dissolves into whimpers. Castiel steps on a chair, holds the bookshelf, and leverages himself up to the top quietly. From up here he can’t see anything yet. The top of the shelves are wide enough for him to fit on comfortably without any of his limbs hanging off as he army crawls towards where Dean’s voice is coming from, collecting dust and cobwebs as he goes. </p><p>“Oh my God, oh my God,” the wounded man blubbers. </p><p>“Aw,” Dean clucks his tongue. “God can’t save you.” </p><p>Blam. </p><p>Castiel stretches the length of his body between two separate book cases, doing his best to not knock anything over so he can get closer to Dean. </p><p>“Anyway, Cas. You always say ‘mind your business’, right? So why can’t you mind yours?”</p><p>Castiel crawls close enough to be able to see half of Dean’s back three bookcases over.</p><p>“Cops are gonna be here in four minutes, by the way,” Dean says casually, “so if you don’t wanna be caught as the last man standing in the middle of a massacre, Mr. Millionaire, I suggest you come out from wherever you’re hiding.” </p><p>Very carefully Castiel lowers himself to the floor. He pulls his knife from his belt holster, hiding around the corner from Dean. He can at least take him by surprise and get a head start in running. It’s worked before. Just as he’s about to make his move Dean opens fire again, burst shots from some sort of automatic weapon barreling around the library. No one has a chance. </p><p>He looks down. Blood pools at his feet. </p><p>Everyone in the library is dead. </p><p>Dean’s boots appear in his field of vision, toe to toe with Castiel. Lifting his gaze to Dean’s, Castiel’s eyes narrow in fury. Dean unloads the magazine from his gun with a click, tossing it and the rifle to the floor carelessly, his eyes blacker than black as he leans in to Castiel. </p><p>“There’s only one way out of this, Cas.” </p><p>Castiel closes his eyes in anger.</p><p>He opens them in rage. </p><p>He’s no longer in the library. He’s out on the highway, cars rolling past him. There’s no blood on his shoes. Birds are chirping. </p><p>The whispers have stopped. </p><p>--</p><p>Walking with his thumb out, Castiel heads down the west coast towards California. In southern Oregon people are friendly and compassionate, often asking him if he needs food or clothes along with his ride. He politely declines, briefly explains he’s hitchhiking to soul search, not because he’s poor, which usually sends people off on some sort of introspective speech about what they’d like to do if they could soul search. It’s all very boring. He watches the trees grow taller and thicker and denser. He only spends three hours in a car before asking to be dropped off, sometimes in a town, sometimes on the side of the road. </p><p>His knife stays in his backpack. </p><p>He thinks.</p><p>He plans. </p><p>He hasn’t seen Dean in three weeks.</p><p>Sometimes he wonders if he’s actually seen Dean at all. What has black eyes, sharp teeth, and thrills at the thought of killing or being killed?</p><p>Castiel checks his own eyes in the mirror sometimes.</p><p>Why has Dean fixated on him? It can’t just be because their… <i>hobbies</i>... align. </p><p>Castiel generally avoids bars, but tonight he’s sitting at the counter with a shirley temple and his book. The television is playing a baseball game, the customers aren’t too raucous, the establishment is clean. It’s next door to his motel and a decent place to settle down and not necessarily relax, but clear his mind with white noise. He’s waiting on the burger he ordered, ignoring the doe eyes he’s receiving from a woman on the other side of the bar. She’s beautiful, but he doesn’t trust himself right now. Her throat is slender, her hair long, waist slim, wrists breakable-</p><p>The stool next to him scrapes against the floor as Dean pulls it out and sits, blocking Castiel’s sight of the woman. Rolling his eyes, Castiel returns to his paperback, resolutely ignoring Dean’s presence. </p><p>“Margie, tender,” Dean says, holding up two fingers. The bartender pops open two bottles, setting them down on the bar top. Dean slides one one over to Castiel, shifting to sit on the stool so his knee presses against Castiel’s thigh. “Missed you, baby. How you been?” </p><p>“Swell,” Castiel says blandly. He flips the page. </p><p>“Heading down to La La Land?” </p><p>“I thought we established that we wouldn’t be nosy,” he replies. He ignores the beer. </p><p>“You move quick,” Dean says with a shrug. “Kinda hard to pin you down.”</p><p>“I’d rather you didn’t.” </p><p>Laughing, Dean bumps his shoulder to Castiel’s like they’re old friends, like they don’t try to kill each other every time they meet. Dean’s laughter attracts the attention of quite a few people in the bar, the atmosphere changing drastically. Many people shift away from the bar counter, some people leave altogether, throwing cash down on their table and making a swift exit. Castiel sees all of this happening and becomes curious, though says nothing out loud. </p><p>Dean seems oblivious, but Castiel is learning that he’s not oblivious on accident. </p><p>Half the bar empties. The bartender doesn’t seem concerned. He puts the burger down in front of Castiel, sets a bottle of ketchup down next to his plate, then moves out from behind the bar to start bussing tables. Castiel thinks he looks slightly familiar.</p><p>“I’m curious-” </p><p>“None of your business.”</p><p>“Aw c’mon Cas,” Dean pouts, shifting on his stool again. Now both of his knees are pressed against Castiel’s thigh as he leans into Castiel’s space, elbow on the bar and beer in hand. “Can’t take you home to mom and dad if you won’t tell me anything.”</p><p>“Your parents are dead.” Castiel sets his book down, picking up his knife to cut his burger in half.</p><p>“So are yours,” Dean says with a shrug. </p><p>“I’m not what I am because my parents passed away.” </p><p>Dean’s expression shudders just slightly, before that insufferable smirk is back on his features. “You wanna take advantage of my daddy issues?” </p><p>“No,” Castiel takes a bite of his burger. Nothing beats a bar bacon cheeseburger. He’s got half the country as proof. “Sorry to disappoint you.” </p><p>“I ain’t disappointed,” Dean chuckles. He takes a drink of his beer. “Just thought maybe we could keep each other company.”</p><p>“You’ve tried to kill me on three separate occasions,” Castiel says, sending Dean a dry look.</p><p>Dean’s smirk widens. “Wadn’t that a thrill?” When he doesn’t reply, Dean lowers his voice a bit. “I could end you with a snap of my fingers.” Chills run down Castiel’s spine, the whispers creeping up from his tailbone, slithering under the back of his shirt. “But I like you, Cas. You’ve got spunk.” </p><p>“That’s not how most people would describe me.” </p><p>“That’s ‘cause no one’s taken the time to know the <i>real</i> you.” Dean announces, sure of himself. He edges out of Castiel’s bubble, stealing a fry off of his plate. </p><p>Refusing to comment, Castiel takes a drink of his shirley temple, continuing to eat his burger, using his napkin to clean up his mouth. His gaze lifts to the television where <i>Jeopardy!</i> is playing, frowning when no one can answer a Ted Bundy question. </p><p>Hm.</p><p>Dean finishes off his beer, pulling the second one towards him. Castiel does his best to not imagine the man drunk, knowing that he would just be infinitely annoying, but thinks for some reason that the beer probably isn’t affecting Dean at all. Silence settles over them, Dean allowing Castiel to eat in peace, though his knees are still bumping against Castiel’s thigh. When Castiel’s plate is clean the bartender returns to take his dishes away, refilling his shirley temple at the same time. Castiel puts cash on the bar, enough to cover his food, drink, and a hefty tip. It’s Dean’s fault he lost his patrons for the night, and Castiel is with Dean, therefore he feels slightly responsible. </p><p>Suddenly it’s too silent. There are no whispers skittering over his skin, no pressure against his thigh; he looks to his left and finds Dean’s stool empty, the man nowhere in sight. Blinking in surprise, Castiel frowns. </p><p>The bartender comes back into range, wiping a glass with a towel.</p><p>“Watch out for that one, brotha,” he says with a Louisiana drawl. </p><p>Castiel’s frown deepens. </p><p>“This is the farthest anyone’s gotten.” </p><p>Instead of sleeping, Castiel checks out of his motel and hitches a ride east. </p><p>That bartender has been in every bar Castiel has stopped in since leaving Illinois.</p><p>--</p><p>Castiel veers off course from California to Wyoming. The bartender’s warning sticks with him. If Dean is able to track him so easily, perhaps throwing him off the trail will help. Castiel’s still unsure as to what Dean is, those black eyes and that sharp smile dancing behind closed eyelids every time he tries to rest. Dean doesn’t scare him, not particularly, but he does make him uneasy. If it really would be so simple for Dean to kill him, the good news is: he hasn’t.</p><p>The bad news is: Castiel has no idea why. </p><p>Grand Teton National Park is beautiful in June. Castiel spends some time wandering trails without a destination in mind, never coming across any other hikers or people. At this time of year that seems a bit strange, but he came into the park at an odd angle, so perhaps the farther in he goes the more people he’ll see. </p><p>He sleeps in the trees and uses the ice cold water to freshen up. On the third day he finally sees a group of hikers, meeting their friendly waves with a small nod of his head. He catches a ride with some hikers that had finished navigating the other side of the park, the group of them heading south. The Jeep is old and desperately needs an oil change but Castiel, smushed in the back seat between two women, finds a bit of peace.</p><p>No whispers.</p><p>No black eyes. </p><p>They say they’re going to Casper, to which Castiel agrees to. These people are friendly, trusting. Castiel… <i>enjoys</i> them. Throughout his travels it’s been hard to find people that he didn’t get annoyed by or tired of. The ride is almost four hours with no music, everyone just chatting about the park and what they enjoyed, as well as what they’ll be doing in Casper. Castiel does well in answering things vaguely. He tells them he’s been hitchhiking, which they nod sagely to and don’t ask any more questions, and he… likes that. </p><p>Despite the fact that he’s going backwards, now, Castiel finds that he doesn’t mind the change in direction.  He never really had a route planned in the first place. </p><p>In Casper he parts from the group. He purposely didn’t pay attention to any of their names. It’s better this way. He decides to go idly in the direction of Arizona, but first stops at a motel to check in for the night. </p><p>It’s peaceful. He showers, sleeps, then wakes up in the morning and decides to hop on a bus. The bus takes him from Casper to Rock Springs, where he then hikes his way to highway 191 to continue on south. Between three cars he manages to make it to Red Canyon, where he gets off the roads completely to enter Flaming Gorge. At the peak of summer he’s intent on sleeping outside as much as possible, his backpack replenished with all he needs to survive as well as a brochure listing pictures and names of things edible within the forest. </p><p>A week passes. Then two. He alternates between camping and hitching rides, and before he knows it he’s in Arizona outside of the Grand Canyon. He stays in a nearby motel to freshen up, hits the grocery store for supplies, then makes his way to the beauty. The trails are easy to follow, though obviously advanced as he makes his way to the best vantage points (according to park employee). His stomach drops a little as he peers over a ledge with nothing to support him, watching the Colorado river cut through the valley. He wanders around a bit more after that, wondering if he should hike all the way down to the bottom, then decides against it last minute. </p><p>He’s had enough of nature, for now. </p><p>Flagstaff isn’t terribly far. He settles into a motel, freshly showered and belly full, lying down on a surprisingly comfortable mattress. The air conditioner rattles, the lights buzz a little. He blinks, long and slow, lids feeling heavy. He’d stayed in the library for longer than usual today, caught up in a few interesting scholar articles, tucking away information in the corners of his brain, unsure when he’ll draw it out, but knowing that he’ll need to.</p><p>A weight settles over his pelvis.</p><p>His eyes open.</p><p>Dean’s hands close around his throat, reminiscent of their first night together. </p><p>Castiel lets him, going lax in his hold.</p><p>Dean frowns, his grip lessening as he searches Castiel’s eyes. </p><p>“If my time is to end by your hands,” Castiel says, his voice rough from the squeeze, “then so be it.” </p><p>Dean pulls his hands away, eyes searching Castiel’s. “You don’t mean that.” </p><p>“It’s inevitable, isn’t it?” Castiel asks. “That’s why you’ve been following me. Watching me.”</p><p>“<i>No</i>,” Dean says a bit more forcefully, some anger leaking through. He grabs Castiel’s shirt this time, bunching it in his fists and hauling Castiel up a fraction with impressive strength. “Y’ain’t even done.” </p><p>“Done with <i>what</i>?” Castiel’s eyes narrow, frustration now gripping him. </p><p>“Your mission!” Dean snaps. “The whole reason you started this stupid road trip in the first place!”</p><p>“I left my responsibilities,” he says, his tone of voice hardening and the volume increasing. “I left everything I had behind-”</p><p>“<i>Why</i> did you do it?” Dean presses.</p><p>“Because I wasn’t happy!”</p><p>“And are you happy now?” Dean shakes him slightly, making Castiel’s teeth clack. “What do you <i>feel</i>?”</p><p>“Alone!” </p><p>Dean’s mouth snaps shut, dropping Castiel back down to the bed. His green eyes are wide, his brow furrowed slightly. “What?” </p><p>“I felt alone back home. Even my personal assistant wasn’t my friend. My family is dead-”</p><p>“Because of you,” Dean leans into Castiel’s space again, his hot, spearmint-flavored breath washing over his nose and lips. His palms sink into the pillow. “Everyone you’ve ever loved is dead.” </p><p>Castiel’s eyes narrow again. He lifts his hands, pushing against Dean’s chest, his heart thundering. “Leave.” </p><p>“Struck a nerve?” Dean asks wickedly, his eyes flashing black. “You’re well on your way, Cas.”</p><p>“<i>Leave</i>.” Castiel says, harsher this time. </p><p>Dean’s inhumanly strong. He presses back against Castiel’s hands, bending his elbows so he can swipe his tongue across Castiel’s lips slow and dirty. The whispers skate over his bare feet, creeping up the hem of his pajama pants. “Make me.”</p><p>“<i>Christo</i>!” </p><p>Immediately recoiling, Dean hisses before disappearing in a wisp of black smoke. Alone on the bed, Castiel finally allows his breath to stutter, his heart skipping as he sits up and puts his palm to where Dean’s hand burned against his skin. Looking around the room to ensure that he truly is alone, he flops back onto the bed. He looks over to the nightstand where he knows a bible is, then closes his eyes tightly.</p><p>He’d had his suspicions. </p><p>What does he do now?</p><p>--</p><p>It’s quite curious, really, but also quite annoying.</p><p>Castiel can’t touch a rosary without his fingers tingling with a phantom burn. He can’t pick up a bible without feeling flames licking up his arms. </p><p>He tries saying <i>Christo</i> again, but the word gets lodged in his throat. </p><p>It takes another week for him to reach Tucson. He stays in cars for longer than eight hours despite the warning bells going off in his head, stays on freeways even though he knows better. Something draws him southward. He asks an older gentleman if there are any religious sites nearby, to which the man chuckles and says, “San Xavier. If you’re a Catholic, that’ll be exactly what you want to see.” </p><p>Castiel had always considered himself atheist, but recent events have him taking other realms of possibility into consideration.</p><p><i>Mission San Xavier del Bac</i> is probably the most beautiful building Castiel has seen on his trip. For all he’s traveled around the world and seen great architecture everywhere, from ancient cities to skyscraper wonders, seeing San Xavier in front of him with its brick and lime mortar takes his breath away. It stands stark against the blue skies, not a cloud in sight. </p><p>Standing in front of the church slows Castiel’s heart and lungs. </p><p>He's seen the Vatican. He's seen Sacré Coeur. </p><p>Something about this site, specifically, draws him in.</p><p>He takes a step closer. Then another. And another. </p><p>Ten feet away from the entrance he hears the whispers slithering on the wind. </p><p>Turning around, Castiel follows the signs to the areas close to the church. A nearby grotto has a shrine carved into its rocks, beautiful with fragrant flowers and unlit candles. Castiel can stand closer to this, so he kneels, putting his hands on his knees and staring at the shrine. </p><p>He kneels until his legs complain. </p><p>When he stands and turns around, Dean is lounging against a different rock. They stare each other down, Castiel pissed and Dean hesitant. </p><p>Dean disappears first. </p><p>Castiel presses his knuckles to his forehead, massaging away a headache.</p><p>What kind of defense can he use against Dean if they also affect him, as well?</p><p>--</p><p>As far as Castiel knows demons are evil spirits possessing the living. Going off of that logic, it makes sense that Dean’s disappearance happened out of the blue eight years ago; it makes sense that people say he went down a dark path, maybe dabbled in drugs and violence. </p><p>Going off of that logic, Castiel still can’t explain what’s happening to <i>him</i>. </p><p>He still doesn’t look in mirrors as he passes. He gets his hair cut once a month, showers and shaves while avoiding looking into what he once thought were very lovely eyes. He continues to do research, trying to figure out how to get rid of Dean without hurting himself in the process. </p><p>Calling around to area churches doesn’t yield many results, as most of the priests want Castiel to go to the church so they can talk further into details. The Corpus Christi, church, however, directs Castiel to a church in Minnesota, alluding to the fact that they know just why Castiel is calling, but can’t help him directly. Mildly frustrated, but still intrigued and determined, Castiel finally gets ahold of a man called Pastor Jim Murphy.</p><p>“I haven’t heard that name in a <i>long</i> time,” Pastor Jim says. “Me and Dean’s old man used to be pretty tight. Dean was a bit of a troublemaker, but he was a good kid through and through. Hard working and honest.” </p><p>Inside the phone booth Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose, leaning against the glass wall. “When was the last time you talked to Dean?” </p><p>“Probably just before he fell off the face of the earth,” Pastor Jim says thoughtfully. “Maybe a year before. Couldn’tve been more than fifteen years old.” </p><p>A thoughtful silence passes between them, before Castiel decides to bite the bullet. “I was directed to you because I need help.” </p><p>“With Dean?” Pastor Jim asks, surprised. </p><p>“With Dean,” Castiel confirms.</p><p>“You’ve seen him?” </p><p>“I have. He is what I need help with.” </p><p>“He don’t need no wining and dining if that’s what you’re after, kid,” Pastor Jim chuckles. </p><p>“He’s a demon.” </p><p>Some static crackles over the phone line before Pastor Jim asks in a low, steady voice, “What?” </p><p>“He’s been tailing me for three months. At first I thought he was another wanderer who just happened to be showing up in the same places I landed in. But… sometimes he travels great distances without his car. He’s very strong. And his eyes-”</p><p>“Turn black as night.” Pastor Jim finishes his sentence. </p><p>Castiel covers his eyes with his hand, suddenly exhausted. Now that he knows he’s not crazy, he feels a weight off his shoulders. “I need to meet with you, preferably not inside a church.”</p><p>Pastor Jim doesn’t ask anymore questions, just gives Castiel his address and tells him he’ll be waiting. When Castiel hangs up the phone he feels both elated and nervous. If Dean realizes where Castiel is heading when he starts moving north, there’s no way he won’t be intercepted. </p><p>After a moment’s hesitation, Castiel redials Pastor Jim’s number to ask him just one more question, to which Pastor Jim has many answers. Satisfied, Castiel hangs up and leaves the phone booth to head to the nearest sporting goods store.</p><p>He needs a bigger backpack.</p><p>--</p><p>Dean doesn’t show up until Castiel books a motel in Omaha. He’s lounging on the bed when Castiel comes out of the shower, wrapped only in a towel, his backpack on the floor within easy reach of Dean’s hands, which are currently holding Castiel’s paperback novel. Castiel’s shoulders tense briefly, but the last time he saw Dean nothing had transpired. Perhaps he would be lucky this time, as well.</p><p>Even if it doesn’t come to physical blows, Dean’s hungry eyes roving over Castiel’s wet, dripping form is enough to make the hair stand on his neck as the whispers try to unravel his towel from his hips. </p><p>“Get out,” Castiel says. </p><p>Dean flashes a wicked smile. “Make me.”</p><p>They both know he can’t. Castiel walks over to the bed with an annoyed frown on his features, picking up his backpack and pleased that Dean makes no move for it. He opens the flap, rooting around for his clean clothes that he forgot to put out, doing his best to ignore Dean.</p><p>“New bag?” Dean comments.</p><p>Castiel sends him a dry look. “No, I found a moon stone and it evolved.” </p><p>That manages to perplex Dean. Smirking to himself, Castiel shifts a few things around and finds his boxers and a t-shirt, closing the flap again and moving back into the bathroom to dress. He emerges once again, this time ruffling his hair with the towel, draping it over his shoulders as he looks at Dean blandly.</p><p>“I’m tired.” </p><p>Smiling charmingly, Dean scoots over on the queen bed, patting the space next to him. “I’m a sucker for cuddles.”</p><p>“I heard a threesome a few doors down, you should try there.”</p><p>“Or,” Dean gestures expansively, “we can have our own party here.” </p><p>“What do you want?” Castiel grumbles. “Either you try to kill me and once again fail, or you leave. Pick one. Preferably the one that doesn’t dirty me now that I’m clean.”</p><p>“We can’t just pillow talk a little?” </p><p>“I can’t imagine that I’m interested in anything you want to gossip about.” </p><p>Dean grins again, eyes flashing black before clearing back to their pretty green. “Pretty sure I got a few things you’re interested in talking about.” </p><p>Holding back a sigh, Castiel tips his head back to look at the ceiling for three seconds, before exhaling slowly and returning his gaze to Dean. “I’m tired of asking you questions.”</p><p>“Then stop asking them.” </p><p>Steepling his fingers, Castiel presses his index fingers to his nose and this thumbs to his lips as he sends Dean as steady of a look as he can muster. “Get out.” </p><p>Dean tosses the book aside and shifts to get on his hands and knees, crawling towards the end of the bed. His shoulders move elegantly, spine dipping, the curve of his ass accentuated as he drops down onto his elbows, looking up at Castiel through his lashes. </p><p>“C’mon. Live a little.” </p><p>“Ironic.” Castiel says, reaching out to shove Dean by the shoulder, successfully upsetting his balance and knocking him off of the bed. </p><p>He tumbles to the floor in a heap, Castiel climbs into bed under the covers, then Dean’s head pops up at the foot of his bed as he sends Castiel what is probably supposed to be some sort of puppy eyes. Castiel ignores him, picking up his book to find the page he left off on to start reading. Dean seems content to play cutesy instead of kill-y, so Castiel will do his best to take advantage of it. </p><p>Dean stands up, moving to the linen closet to grab an extra blanket. He grabs his jacket from where it’s draped over the chair, folding it up and putting it down as a makeshift pillow. He lies down comfortably and adjusts until he settles. Castiel dutifully ignores him. After a few moments of silence, Dean speaks up.</p><p>“You headin’ home?” </p><p>Oh. It never crossed Castiel’s mind that he had been heading in that direction this whole time. Chewing his lip, he decides to neither confirm nor deny Dean’s assumption. </p><p>“Will you ever?” He questions back.</p><p>“Nah,” Dean says easily. “Nothin’ left there for me.”</p><p>“What about your brother?”</p><p>“Uncle Bobby’d shoot me sight on scene,” Dean says with a laugh. </p><p>Castiel flips the page. </p><p>“But you-” Dean continues. “You got your personal assistant or whatever. Your job. People who probably miss you and will welcome you when you go home.” </p><p>“A grand assumption,” Castiel replies, droll.</p><p>“Is it?” He sees Dean prop up on his elbow in his peripheral. “One of the most wanted rich, young bachelors in the fuckin’ U.S. decides to take a sabbatical. You’re not in the tabloids because your assistant or whatever is keepin’ a tight lid on things, but… you’ve got it made, man. And when you go back, it’ll be a silver spoon.” </p><p>“I’m not interested in ‘having it made’,” Castiel says, lifting a hand away from his book to make air quotes with his fingers. “I told you why I left.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Dean nods solemnly. “Lonely. But- hey,” the flash of his smile is blinding in the low lamplight. “Two of us are peas in a pod, right? Don’t gotta be lonely if you hang around me.”</p><p>“Can’t be lonely if I’m dead,” Castiel hums. </p><p>“Y’ain’t gonna die,” Dean says, sounding annoyed. </p><p>Castiel finally glances down towards him, raising a brow. “Because you haven’t been trying to kill me since we met.” </p><p>“But did you die?” </p><p>Castiel clenches his jaw, desperately doing his best to refrain from throwing his book at Dean’s head. Counting backwards from ten, Castiel settles once again, looking at his book and muttering, “I have not yet died. Though I get the impression you like to play with your food.” </p><p>“It ain’t like that,” Dean says, flopping back down again. </p><p>“Then what <i>is</i> it like, Dean?” Castiel finally snaps, putting his book down in his lap and glaring down at him. </p><p>“You’re on the path, man,” Dean says, shrugging like his answer is easy and truthful. A freckle stands out where his shirt collar is dipped slightly, beckoning Castiel to put his mouth on it. “Some are born with it, and some are made. You were born with it. Just like I was.”</p><p>Knowing exactly what Dean’s talking about, but not wanting to let on that he knows, Castiel rolls his eyes and lets out an exasperated breath. “This is why I no longer ask questions.” He reopens his book, muttering. “I’d rather you go back to trying to kill me.” </p><p>Quiet.</p><p>When he looks down, Dean is gone but his leather jacket remains. Climbing out of bed he kneels, picking up the folded leather and opening it up to examine it. Vintage, but kept very neat and nice, the real leather likely restored at least once. Bringing it closer, Castiel inhales the leather deeply, smelling the richness and a hint of whatever Dean uses to wash up with. Still holding it in his hands, he climbs back into bed. He turns the lamp off, puts his book on the nightstand, and drapes the coat over the comforter. It’s heavy but not restricting, pressing Castiel pleasantly down into the mattress, not unlike how it feels to have Dean straddling him. </p><p>--</p><p>The next car Castiel gets into, he has no choice. The woman recognizes him because he’s almost local. She immediately starts gushing about him and his company and all the good he’s done, and oh, by the way, she has three daughters and they are all very beautiful and delicate, would he like to see some photos? </p><p>He politely declines all of her advancements. He knew this would happen as soon as he entered the surrounding states of his home, but he feels a little bad that this sweet woman will be the first to go. He’s taken a long enough break, the hunger curbed. Now it’s a necessity, as he asks her to pull over in a rest stop area. There are a few cars and semis parked, and she tells Castiel that she has to use the restroom as well when he grabs his backpack. They do their business, but before getting back into the car, Castiel suggests that they take a stroll on the nearby trail to stretch their legs. She happily agrees, following him blindly into the woods. </p><p>Her body should be found by dogs within the next few hours. </p><p>Five miles up the road with Dean’s leather jacket draped warmly over him, Castiel hitches another ride, the gentleman thankfully not recognizing him. </p><p>Blue Earth, Minnesota, is only another two hours away. Castiel has the man drop him off four miles away from the address Pastor Jim gave him, thinking it safer to walk the rest of the way. When he approaches the farmhouse Pastor Jim is out in the yard raking grass clippings; he spots Castiel and gives a friendly wave, which Castiel returns with a nod. </p><p>“Castiel!” Pastor Jim greets. He holds out his hand for a shake, Castiel obliging. “Nice to finally meet you. Come in, come in.”</p><p>Following Jim into his home, something tickles the back of Castiel’s neck. Ignoring it, he enters the foyer to set his backpack down next to the coat stand, but when he goes to follow Jim farther into his house, he’s suddenly stopped, like an invisible wall is directly in front of him. Frowning, Castiel looks up at the ceiling, then down at the throw rug beneath his feet. Perplexed, he cracks his knuckles at his sides before using his shoe to displace the rug, eyes widening as he reveals a pentagram painted on the floorboards.</p><p>“Ah,” Jim didn’t go all the way into the living room, deciding to stand and watch Castiel with curiosity. “That’s why Dean’s after you.” </p><p>“What is this?” Castiel asks, bending down to trace the paint. It scalds his fingertips, his arm snapping back with a small, pained hiss. </p><p>“A devil’s trap.” Jim walks forward, kneeling to use a knife to scratch away some of the paint. The phantom sensation of being trapped in an invisible box goes away, that weird tingle dissolving as well. “Didn’t think you’d be a demon, too.” </p><p>Letting out a little sigh, Castiel steps out of the pentagram carefully. Jim retrieves a can of spray paint from the hall closet to close up the line again, then puts the rug back into place. </p><p>“You’ve got quite a problem on your hands, son,” Jim says ruefully. He leads Castiel into the living room, gesturing for him to sit on the couch. “Are you you?”</p><p>“Am I me?” Castiel repeats, sitting down and looking at the palms of his hands. “As far as I know, yes.” A demon. Like Dean. How did this happen?</p><p>“And based on what you’ve told me, Dean is Dean,” the Pastor says thoughtfully, taking a seat in the recliner. He strokes his goatee, humming. “The church has always operated with the intelligence that demons are dark spirits that come from Hell to possess the living and wreak havoc. There are many different interpretations as to how demons came to be… but it’s a general agreement that in order for demons to walk the earth, they must inhabit flesh and blood.</p><p>“Now, that’s not to say that evil <i>doesn’t</i> exist in flesh and blood. Those who sin with intent carry a darkness within them, an untamable force. An average man who sins because of a weak constitution or because he is unable to resist temptation is not born evil- he is simply born human. But there are those who hear the whispers of the devil, hear the song of Lucifer himself, and react out of instinct. Those are the black souls.” </p><p>Castiel stays silent, absorbing Pastor Jim’s words. Then: “People can… turn into demons.” </p><p>“When you think of history and the tyrants that have come and gone- Hitler, Hussein, Stalin- why do you think they did the things they did?” </p><p>“They had an agenda,” Castiel replies easily. “Each of those men had an ideal that they would stop at nothing to see come to fruition.” </p><p>“Do you think they were born evil? Or that perhaps one day that just… <i>learned</i> to be evil?” </p><p>“I would like to hold onto the belief that no one is <i>born</i> evil,” Castiel says with a frown. </p><p>“Perhaps,” Jim nods slowly. “It’s good to know your morality still has a decent scale.” </p><p>Castiel’s eyes narrow. </p><p>Jim chuckles. “Eyes don’t go black as yours for no reason, son.”</p><p>His hand flies up to the side of his face. Did his eyes go black?</p><p>"It's just a flash," Pastor Jim soothes. "Anyone not looking for it would miss it."</p><p>"How am I a demon?" Castiel watches Pastor Jim get up and move to a small wet bar in the corner of the living room.</p><p>"Well," Pastor Jim pours a finger of whisky, glancing at Castiel in invitation, who shakes his head in the negative. "I can't tell you why, specifically. You gotta search whatever's left of your soul and figure it out, yourself."</p><p>Castiel frowns. One glaringly obvious thing comes to mind, but… can being a serial killer really turn a regular human into a demon? Was Ted Bundy a demon? Ed Kemper?</p><p>Pastor Jim interrupts his thoughts. "I did some research on you, Castiel Novak." He sits in the recliner with his whisky, sipping on it slowly as he regards Castiel. "You run a fortune five-hundred company. It's progressive. It's green. Fair wages and good benefits. You're quite the CEO.” He sets his glass down on his knee. “How old are you? None of the sites say."</p><p>"None of them know," Castiel admits. "I keep as much information about myself as private as possible. I dislike the media and paparazzi." He sinks further into the couch, fingers drumming over his knees. "I'm twenty-nine."</p><p>Pastor Jim's eyebrows raise, a low whistle passing through his lips. "You built your company from the ground up four years ago."</p><p>"I graduated high school when I was fifteen," Castiel says, getting annoyed with this vein of conversation. </p><p>Pastor Jim takes another sip of whisky, then leans forward with a critical eye. "For all the good you've done in such a short amount of time… you've found an interesting stress relief, haven't you?" He pauses. "Your parents died rather tragically."</p><p>"Quit talking around the topic," Castiel says flatly. "I killed them- you know that."</p><p>"And you've killed many since then, I'd reckon. Don't eat? Don't really sleep?"</p><p>Biting the inside of his cheek, Castiel refrains from rolling his eyes. Pastor Jim is a respectable man, and he needs his help. Being a brat won't get him anywhere. "Yes."</p><p>"Somewhere down the line, I think something snapped," Jim surmises. "It's not often a human <i>turns</i> into a demon. Only the more dire and depraved and… supernatural circumstances cause such a thing." He takes another sip of whisky. "You were not born evil, Castiel. You are not Hitler or Stalin or Hussein. You are the product of circumstance."</p><p>Castiel thinks. "I don't <i>feel</i> any different. Dean-" he licks his lips. "Dean can do things I can't, and yet we have the same weaknesses."</p><p>"I'm afraid Dean went down a much, much darker path," Jim says gravely. "Yours was a circumstance. His was a choice."</p><p>"Why would someone choose this?" Castiel asks, frustrated. </p><p>"Why do you kill people?" Pastor Jim asks reasonably. "Why did you kill your parents?"</p><p>"They were holding me back," he replies plainly. "They were strict and cruel and I was leagues beyond them even as a child. Anything I wanted to do they rebuked. My dreams and aspirations were romantic ideals. They were <i>tax accountants</i> and expected me to fall in line with them. Scholarships could only get me so far.” He takes a breath, calming himself down. He’s not used to… talking, but it feels a strange sort of cathartic to say all of this out loud finally. “I needed a loan to start my business. Banks laughed at me. Advanced loan businesses brushed me off. My parents were the only ones with enough money in their pockets and they refused to support me even when I presented them with the projected growth of my business and the estimated return of their loan - <i>double</i> what I was asking from them.</p><p>“Yet they still said no. So I took care of them and used the inheritance from their will to start my business."</p><p>Pastor Jim hums. "You killed them for convenience… and, perhaps, because you felt as though they were rotten people."</p><p>"Religious zealots whom I never came out to because they would have sent me off to a 'pray it away' concentration camp," Castiel snorts.</p><p>"I see. And you felt no remorse for this?"</p><p>Again, Castiel's eyes narrow. "I believe I came here for information on how to get rid of Dean, Pastor Jim. Not a confessional."</p><p>Jim chuckles, shrugging. "I suppose that was my own curiosity. You come off as a vigilante, but you have a lot of anger within you, don't you?" Castiel's eyes narrow further. Jim sighs, resigned. "You will be hard pressed to come across a young man as angry as Dean who hasn't gone some sort of dark side. He has a lot to be angry about.</p><p>“You read the articles on Dean and his family. The public doesn't know the gritty details." Jim points towards a photo on the mantle of his fireplace. A younger Jim and a handsome man his age smile back. "That's John Winchester. Dean's father. He and I go way back. John used to consult me… because he was a hunter." His gaze cuts to Castiel. "And not the wilderness kind."</p><p>Castiel nods in understanding.</p><p>"Ol' John was strict, but he loved fiercely. His wife, Mary, and their two kids, had it made. John retired from the hunting life and they lived happily for many years. You can leave the hunter's life, but the things that go bump in the night still go on." He stands up to return to the wet bar, filling his whisky slowly, his voice turning somber. "Something evil got into their house. John tried to fight it - even his teenage boys tried - but it was too strong. Lit up the house, taking poor Mary in the blaze."</p><p>Jim sighs, putting both hands on the wet bar, shoulders hunching as he turns his back to Castiel. "John checked out. Always had a drinking problem, but it escalated after Mary's death. Dean did his best to raise his little brother, Sam, but John got the better of him most days. He blamed Dean a lot for Mary. Said he just got in the way. And Dean, bless him, let John take all his anger out on him… with words, and with fists."</p><p>Whisky in hand, Jim returns to his seat. His expression is full of sadness, eyes dark as he reflects. Castiel wonders what it’d be like to be filled with such… pity. "John taught the boys everything he knew about hunting, so they could follow in his footsteps. Sam chose to go a different route. Dean… he got sucked in. Addicted, almost. He was consumed by criss-crossing the country and hunting all things evil. He wasn't a drunk, but that boy couldn't cope for nothing if something didn't go his way.</p><p>"He was young and dumb and bit off more than he could chew. Accepted a case from someone he didn't know too well. I don't know the details, but one thing led to another and Dean got ahold of an ancient, holy artifact. One that feeds into any darkness in your soul… and manifests it into something uncontrollable and violent. If that item put his addiction through his roof, what happened after he succumbed to it could be called an overdose. </p><p>"Dean' soul, twisted and blackened by this relic… became mangled beyond repair." He sighs deeply. "The Dean you met is not the Dean I knew. He mimics him at times, yes… and quite well, I'm sure. But this Dean is dangerous, no matter what he might fool you into thinking."</p><p>It's a lot of information to work through. Castiel watches Pastor Jim down his drink in one swallow, and then asks, "Is it reversible?"</p><p>Jim holds Castiel's eye for almost too long, looking like he's trying to find the answer to the universe in Castiel's skull. "Maybe."</p><p>"How can I stop him without killing him? Or hurting myself?"</p><p>Jim frowns. He looks at the leather jacket draped over Castiel’s shoulders contemplatively, then speaks softly. "Castiel, I haven't killed him because I love the boy and couldn't stand to hurt a hair on his head, even if he turned into the devil himself."</p><p>"You <i>want</i> me to kill him?" Castiel asks, surprised.  </p><p>"I think Dean's done enough good in his life to be Saved, should he meet his end."</p><p>"You clearly haven't seen the bad," Castiel mutters, thinking about the library full of people that Dean massacred without a second thought. Switching tactics, Castiel drums his fingers against the curve of his left knee. "Is it too late to save… me?"</p><p>"I reckon we can fix you up pretty quick," Pastor Jim says thoughtfully, looking Castiel over. "Though you're a unique case."</p><p>"My story doesn't seem much different than Dean's," he points out.</p><p>"But you can control the darkness. Dean can't."</p><p>That's a lot to chew on. Castiel stares down at his lap, calming his breath as he contemplates his situation. Going from not believing in demons to suddenly turning into one is throwing him into a quiet loop; he would love to research all of the lore around not only demons but whatever else "goes bump in the night". It's all fascinating. </p><p>Though, because he qualifies as a "thing that goes bump in the night" he tries to narrow his curiosity down to just himself and Dean. He can't afford to get distracted right now.</p><p>"What do we need to do?" Castiel asks, finally lifting his gaze to Pastor Jim's.</p><p>Pastor Jim smiles from behind the lip of his glass, a rueful, sad thing.</p><p>Castiel has a feeling this won't be easy.</p><p>--</p><p>It takes two days of Pastor Jim injecting his own purified blood into Castiel's body. It burns, it stings; Castiel can feel his brain sizzling, his soul recoiling. He spends every minute strapped to a chair bolted to the floor of Jim's basement, sweating out his blackness like an addict in rehab, screaming hoarsely and near tears. Jim only lets him up to use the bathroom, and only when he's so exhausted Jim has to literally wipe him clean. He knows it's for Jim's safety, but that doesn't mean he enjoys it.</p><p>On the dawn of the third day when Castiel wakes up from a surprisingly restful nap, his vision is clear. His flesh is smooth, his fever is down, his soul is calm. Jim comes down the stairs as if on cue to look Castiel over, putting his palm on his forehead to check for fever. He pulls back, grabs a silver flask out of the breast pocket of his shirt, then dumps the entire contents over Castiel's head.</p><p>It's ice cold. Castiel grits his teeth to try and stop them from chattering, chin tucked to his chest to keep the water from going up his nose. Jim lets out a little chuckle, then starts undoing the bindings over Castiel's chest, wrists, and ankles.</p><p>"Well I'll be damned. It worked."</p><p>Castiel cuts Jim an exasperated glare. "You didn't know if it would?"</p><p>"Your eyes are the prettiest blue," Jim says with a grin. "Not a speck of black."</p><p>Rolling his eyes, Castiel stands up once he's free. Despite being pinned to a chair for sixty hours his body feels limber and light. He shakes out his limbs, scrubs his wet face, then pats himself down.</p><p>"Feel good?"</p><p>"Was that holy water?"</p><p>Jim nods, putting the flask back in his pocket. "You ready to learn, son?"</p><p>"I was out for almost three days," Castiel says, taking a step forward and wobbling slightly. "Dean is probably nearby."</p><p>"Then we do a crash course," Jim says, slipping his arm under Castiel's shoulders. "Let's get some food in you."</p><p>"And a real shower, please."</p><p>--</p><p>It takes Dean another four days to show up. Pastor Jim is running errands while Castiel cleans up his yard, insisting that he do chores in return for everything Jim has taught him. He'd originally offered money, either to Jim or his church, but Jim had flatly refused. </p><p>Castiel won't question it. He may no longer be a demonling (he'd been ruffled at that term, but he wasn't a full fledged demon yet, so it made sense, even though he felt like a child), but he has always had a difficult time understanding basic human interaction, so when Jim brushed off his attempts at thanks it left Castiel confused, but not put out.</p><p>While raking fallen leaves, Castiel feels an odd prickle at the back of his neck. Turning his head, he sees Dean leaning against a beautiful oak tree, arms folded over his chest and pretty eyes narrowed. He's twenty yards away. Castiel doesn't hear those infernal whispers.</p><p>"What'd he do to you?" Dean demands, voice rough and irritated.</p><p>Castiel returns to taking. "Cured me."</p><p>Dean's voice comes a little quieter. "That's possible?"</p><p>"Obviously," Castiel says dryly. </p><p>Dean falls quiet. Castiel keeps raking. After a few moments, Dean says, "I can't walk on that land."</p><p>"Then leave."</p><p>More silence. Castiel glances over at him again, curious. Dean's staring at his feet, frowning. Castiel thinks that in moments like this, he's seeing <i>Dean</i>, not the twisted black soul he turned into.</p><p>“You got my coat?” </p><p>“No, I left it in that dirty motel to be picked up by housekeeping.” </p><p>“C’mon, man,” Dean says, his voice nearly a whine. “That was a gift.” </p><p>Tipping his head back to look up at the sky and pray silently for strength, Castiel drops his chin and sends a steady look towards the demon. “I kept it, Dean. It’s inside. It’s too hot to wear while doing yard work.” </p><p>Dean manages to look <i>bashful</i>, of all things, lifting a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “Right.” </p><p>“I’m no longer a demonling,” Castiel says, returning to raking. He almost has enough leaves for the bag he has waiting. “You should no longer be interested in me.” </p><p>“You think-?” Dean’s voice is confused. Castiel chances a look at him again. “You think that’s the only reason I was comin’ around?”</p><p>“Well,” Castiel says practically, “you said you didn’t want to kill me, and then you said you hung around because I was,” he takes a hand off the handle of the rake to make air quotes, “‘like you’. I assumed as soon as I was cured you would move on to someone else.” </p><p>“I <i>made</i> you,” Dean huffs, anger flushing his cheeks. “Why would I leave?” </p><p>That makes Castiel stop altogether. He’d has his suspicions; Pastor Jim said that something must have snapped to cause Castiel to turn. Before he got into Dean’s car on that fateful night he’d never heard whispers, never saw black eyes, never felt utter apathy in regard to human life. To hear Dean say himself that he created Castiel has anger rushing through his veins until it explodes all the way through him, Castiel tossing away the rake and stalking towards where Dean is lounging against the tree. </p><p>Eyes widening, Dean tries to hedge away, but is caught by Castiel’s hands snapping out to grab the collar of his henley, jerking him forward so they’re nose to nose. </p><p>“Why would you do that to me?” Castiel spits. “You nearly ruined my life!”</p><p>“I was trying to give you a new one!” Dean yells back, shoving at Castiel’s chest. “You ran away from everything you had to go on a serial killer road trip. Nothing in you wants to go back! You were lookin’ for an out and <i>I gave you one</i>!”</p><p>Breathing heavily, Castiel searches Dean’s eyes. Not a speck of black in them, their hue is highlighted by the lush greens of Pastor Jim’s property, the golden rings near his pupils glowing in the afternoon sun. He’s beautiful. He’s deadly. And for some reason when he picked up Castiel that fateful night he formed an attachment and developed the need to… help him, in his own twisted way.</p><p>He’d been too stubborn to see it. Even though Castiel is no longer a demon of Dean’s making, he’s here, he’s present, checking on him in what he probably thinks is a sentimental manner. </p><p>It’s fucking ridiculous. </p><p>He’s an idiot. </p><p>Yanking him forward, Castiel smashes their lips together. Dean makes a surprised noise before his hands lift to tangle his fingers in Castiel’s hair, pulling him harder, closer, their teeth gnashing together as they try to devour one another with their mouths. Castiel pins Dean against the tree and Dean lets him… for a moment. Dean’s foot kicks between Castiel’s ankles and hooks one, toppling Castiel over in a heap so he can fall over him and land between his legs. The kiss continues, messy and angry. </p><p>Castiel reaches into his pocket, pulling out the knife that Pastor Jim had given him. He doesn’t hesitate, breaking the kiss to grab one of Dean’s hands and slam it against the tree next to them, swinging up his other hand to jam the knife into the back of Dean’s palm, effectively pinning him to the wood. Dean howls in surprise and pain, pulling off Castiel and trying to yank his hand free. </p><p>It won’t move. </p><p>Scrambling out from beneath him, Castiel puts some space between them, panting heavily. The  blade has Dean pinned to the tree, its magic preventing Dean from dislodging it. The edges of his wound crackle and burn, flesh flaking off and turning black as it disappears in ember-singed wisps. Snarling, Dean turns black eyes to Castiel, baring his fangs and letting out a monstrous, dark roar. </p><p>“We will cure you,” Castiel says, clenching his fists at his sides. </p><p>“I don’t want this!” Dean roars, demonic anger burning his vocal chords. </p><p>“You will die a human, you will die a demon, or you will be cured and live to regret the path you went down,” Castiel growls in reply, a new sort of righteous anger flowing through him. </p><p>“<b>You will wish that I had killed you when I had the chance!</b>” </p><p>Squatting from a safe distance, Castiel narrows his eyes at Dean. He drapes his forearms over his knees, hands dangling, tilting his head slightly. “You never would have killed me. The Dean locked inside you - the real, human one with real, human emotions - wouldn’t have let you.” </p><p>Snarling and panting, Dean pounds his free fist on the ground, the earth around them shaking. “You ain’t special, Cas. You were <i>convenient</i>.” </p><p>Standing up, Castiel dusts off his pants unnecessarily, turning to walk away. </p><p>“You’re no better than me!” Dean yells after him. </p><p>Castiel walks up the front porch steps. </p><p>“<b>I WILL KILL YOU!</b>”</p><p>Closing his eyes, Castiel enters the house. He walks to the phone in the living room, picking it up and dialing Jim’s cell. He picks up on the second ring. </p><p>“He’s here.” </p><p>“Prepare the basement,” Jim says. “I’ve just finished getting everything we need.”</p><p>Looking out the window to where Dean’s struggling to free himself from the tree, still yelling and roaring, Castiel chews his lips. “Do you think it will work?” </p><p>“You’ve got a lot in you, Castiel. I think <i>you’re</i> what will make it work.” </p><p>Castiel hangs up. </p><p>When did he go from taking lives to saving them?</p><p>--</p><p>At first Castiel had been unsure as to whether or not he and Jim alone could get Dean from the tree to the basement. Jim proves that knowing a thing or two about the supernatural can only come in handy. He draws a devil's trap on Dean's forehead, which causes the demon to go lax. He still spits and snarls as they carry him into the house and down to the basement, yelling out curses and profanities. They strap him to the chair, make sure all of the restraints have devil's traps etched into them, then take a step back.</p><p>"Son, you really fucked up this time," Jim says to Dean.</p><p>Dean rolls his eyes, but says nothing.</p><p>Jim turns to Castiel. "We'll be using your blood."</p><p>Castiel's eyes widen in surprise. "I'm not blessed or holy. It won't work."</p><p>"Boy, you think that you've been living in my house for almost two weeks and I haven't blessed you? Purified you?"</p><p>Castiel glares. "I didn't give you permission to do those things."</p><p>"I knew you wouldn't," he says, turning towards the table where he's laid out all of their supplies, "so I did it anyway."</p><p>Dean breaks his silence and laughs outright. "This is gold. A born and bred serial killer being given the Holy Light. Shoot, Jimbo. You trying for papacy next?"</p><p>"I reckon when I'm done with you the Pope himself will give me an invite to the Vatican," Jim says. He picks up a monstrous needle, turning towards Castiel and nodding to the chair opposite Dean. "Sit down, son."</p><p>Castiel sits. There's no way his blood will work. If Jim has been purifying him without him noticing how good of a job could he have really done? He doesn't <i>feel</i> any different. Well- he doesn't feel like killing anyone, but he thinks that was a natural improvement that happened from the ritual. He grips the arms of the chair, clears his head, and glares at Dean, who blows him a kiss.</p><p>"You only gave me a taste," Dean croons. "I wonder what other delicacies you're hiding from me."</p><p>"Once Pastor Jim gives me that knife back I'll be happy to show you."</p><p>"No weapons til' we're done here," Jim chides, like they're children rather than men who have violently taken countless lives. He stands next to Castiel's chair, wrapping his bicep with a rubber band. "Flex your fingers."</p><p>Castiel does as told, looking down at his arm to see the veins starting to fill and bulge. "Aren't you worried about blood borne diseases?" He looks up at Jim. "A lot of the things you've taught me involve blood. And putting blood on people. And oneself. And," he looks down to the needle, "you are about to literally inject my blood into someone else."</p><p>"Kid," Jim says, "there's a lot of things out there worse than dying of disease."</p><p>"Right," Castiel says flatly. "I would much rather die of a debilitating illness eating me from the inside out over the course of multiple agonizing years than being killed in an instant by a werewolf or demon."</p><p>"Djinns take their time," Dean supplies. "Basically human sommeliers."</p><p>"Wendigos drain you slowly," Jim says. "It's all painful."</p><p>Castiel opens his mouth to say something but cuts himself off with a tight hiss as Jim chooses that time to stick him with the needle. He can feel the blood being pulled out of him, the needle itself huge and the chamber his blood is filling at least four times as big as the ones a doctor would use. Jim pulls the needle out and hands Castiel a piece of gauze, which he holds over the extraction site. He watches Jim move over to Dean and crane his head to the side, jabbing the needle into his neck and expressing it quickly.</p><p>Immediately Dean's eyes water and he howls. Whether from the blood or the needle, Castiel doesn't know. Jim removes the needle, tosses it onto the table, then gestures to Castiel. </p><p>"C'mon. We gotta let him stew with that first dose. Get some food and electrolytes in you then bring you down for the next dose asap."</p><p>Jim leaves. Castiel stands and looks at Dean, whose chin has dropped down to his chest, eyes closed. It looks like he's sleeping… but he knows demons don't sleep. Crouching in front of him to get a good look at his lax features, Castiel sighs.</p><p>"I don't know if this is the right thing," he admits quietly. "But it cured me. And if it cures you, then… I would like to know the real Dean."</p><p>"You don't wanna know me," Dean mumbles, his voice sounding exhausted and drunk. "Jus' a dumbass kid… can't do nothin' right."</p><p>Castiel stands up. "Pastor Jim thinks you're worth saving. I trust him."</p><p>Dean doesn't reply.</p><p>Castiel leaves the basement.</p><p>He still doesn't have the best grasp on human emotions, but he, too, thinks Dean might be worth saving.</p><p>--</p><p>Over the course of his life, Castiel has heard plenty of insults. From kids who bullied him for being grades above his age; from his father who could barely stand the sight of him; from business moguls that he crushed in executive meetings to merge and eventually overtake their companies. </p><p>Dean surprises him with his creativity. Every needle that pierces his neck brings on a litany of curses and insults, impressing Castiel the longer they go. It's four days of Dean snarling and spitting, black-eyed and pissed off, mixed with intermittent pleas for them to stop, and even rarer requests for Castiel to perform a sexual favor for him. </p><p>On the fifth day Dean passes out. The needle goes into his neck without stirring him. Castiel is physically exhausted, even more so than when he underwent the same treatment. When he’s not sitting across from Dean he’s sleeping in Pastor Jim’s spare bedroom. It’s sparse but comfy, better than the motels he’s been sleeping in for the past half a year. The bed is a twin, just enough room for him to spread out comfortably on. When he sleeps he’s dead to the world, though, doing no tossing or turning, typically waking up in the same position he fell asleep in with a crick in his neck and his legs sore. The bedroom has a large window that Castiel has pinned a dark blanket over, the sunlight burning his tired eyes whenever he catches glimpses of it. The blanket on the bed is a homemade quilt from a neighbor, the wood floorboards decorated with a plush rug that feels like heaven on Castiel’s bare toes whenever he crosses it. </p><p>Then, on the seventh day, they all rested. </p><p>Jim took his turn at sleeping hard enough to make the dead envious. Castiel lazed around watching television, curled up on the couch with the afghan throw. Summer is turning into fall and in this region, the temperature plays between dipping to freezing and dancing back up to brisk. Watching the news, Castiel keeps his eyes and ears peeled for any mention of himself. He also looks out to see if any of his… conquests… have made it to the news, but he’d managed to be discreet enough that those only have small, dedicated articles to them. He resists getting on Jim’s computer, knowing that if he digs too far, he <i>will</i> see his name. He’s not ready for that. </p><p>Soft groaning comes up from the ajar basement door. Glancing over to it, he mutes the television and strains his ears. Yes, that is groaning. Dean specifically. The groans turn into panicked whimpers, then sobbing, causing Castiel’s body to move on its own as he stands from the couch and wraps the blanket around himself to head down into the basement. His bare feet make hardly a noise on the wooden steps, the blanket dragging ever so slightly. When Dean, still strapped to the chair, comes into sight, Castiel edges closer with caution. </p><p>Dean’s chin is to his chest. He’s not struggling, like he has been every time someone enters the same room. His chest is stuttering, fingers flexing on the arms of the chair, knuckles white and forearm veins bulging. Inching closer, Castiel can hear his quiet crying, see the tears dropping off of his cheeks to land in his lap. </p><p>Crouching in front of the other man, Castiel peers into his features. His cheeks are healthily flushed, eyes red and wet from tears, nose running and lips chapped. Dean looks at Castiel searchingly, a little confused. His eyes are crystal clear, lucid, brow furrowing. </p><p>“Who…” Dean’s voice is rough from all the yelling and roaring. </p><p>“Dean?” Castiel asks softly. </p><p>Recognition flashes in Dean’s honey sweet eyes, a ragged sob falling from his lips. He squeezes his eyes shut, fresh tears springing as his body convulses with choked sobs. “Oh my God. Oh my God-” </p><p>Just to be sure, Castiel stands and grabs the flask of holy water sitting on the same table housing the needles. He unscrews the top, holds it over Dean’s head, then lets a little stream trickle over sandy hair.</p><p>No reaction.</p><p>No burning, no screaming, no hissing. </p><p>“I’m not-” Dean tries, words getting stopped up in his throat. “I’m- fuck-” </p><p>A weird compassion fills Castiel. At least he <i>thinks</i> it’s compassion. Kneeling, Castiel works on undoing the restraints, pulling them free from Dean’s chest, wrists, and ankles. Dean nearly topples out of the chair without the leather holding him back. Castiel catches him, carefully maneuvering him down onto the floor with him. On his butt, clutching onto Castiel’s forearms, Dean presses his forehead to Castiel’s chest, whimpering. </p><p>“All those people-” he grinds out, like it hurts to talk. “Cas, <i>all those innocent people</i>-” </p><p>Castiel says nothing. He takes the afghan off of his shoulders and drapes it comfortingly around Dean’s, shifting around to sit on his own rear and draw Dean towards him. It’s hard to get a fully grown man of Dean’s robustness to sit comfortably on his lap, but he manages it, his back leaning against the wall as Dean curls into him like a child. It’s not so much crying as it is stuttered breaths and wet coughs and hiccups, but Castiel understands it for what it is.</p><p>Remorse.</p><p>Dean, trapped by his blackened soul for eight years, is finally realizing all of the chaos he’s caused. </p><p>The sound of Jim’s shoes coming down the steps makes Castiel look towards him. At the bottom of the staircase Jim frowns thoughtfully, scratching his head and then stroking his goatee. Castiel nods his chin slightly. Jim comes forward, and together he and Castiel manage to get Dean to his feet. He’s weak from a week of no food and hardly any sleep. Going up two flights of stairs hurts Dean way more than it hurts them, but they finally get him into Castiel’s bed, his body trembling and shivering. </p><p>“He’s gotta sweat it out,” Jim says. “He’ll need lots of fluids. No solid food.”</p><p>Castiel turns an annoyed look towards Jim. “Why do I need to take care of him?” </p><p>“You’re the one who saved him,” Jim says, lifting a hand to gently squeeze Castiel’s shoulder. “He needs you now more than ever.” </p><p>--</p><p>It’s awful. </p><p>Castiel’s never been a caretaker, <i>ever</i>, so suddenly being responsible for another human being is… trifling. And annoying. And inconvenient. </p><p>It’s not really <i>Dean</i> that’s making it so frustrating. It’s Castiel’s apparent inability to read people properly or be… thoughtful. He can feed Dean on a schedule perfectly fine. Help him to the bathroom. Give him a sponge bath. These are things that he can do on a schedule that have structure to them. Things that don’t throw variables at him. </p><p>Dean can’t help it. </p><p>He has nightmares, eight years worth of death and destruction and whatever else he got up to while infected with the hell disease. It takes Castiel two nights to figure out that if he just holds Dean’s hand he quiets down. Or sometimes if he brushes his fingers through Dean’s hair, that calms him. Occasionally he has to wake Dean up from his nightmare, gently shaking him awake and then deflecting punches as Dean returns to consciousness. Dean looks absolutely frightened when he wakes up from these nightmares. He meets Castiel’s eyes like a spooked wild animal, lies down with a trembling lip, then falls under the instant Castiel starts petting his knuckles or his hair. </p><p>When he’s awake he’s listless. Nothing like the exuberant persona he had while a demon. He stares off into nothingness, watches the television without seeing it, barely says a word. </p><p>Jim doesn’t seem concerned.</p><p>Castiel is worried as hell, even if he doesn’t show it. He knows, logically, that Dean as a demon was a twisted act, a demented exaggeration of Dean’s old personality traits. Jim has told him stories of Dean and while he was always a friendly, charming kid, he also had his quiet moments. </p><p>He wonders if Dean will ever be <i>Dean</i> again.</p><p>He doesn’t know why he stays. Three days after Dean’s cured Jim says that Castiel can get back on the road if he wants. Continue his road trip. Maybe <i>actually</i> do some soul searching now that his soul is fully intact without any dark marks. It’s tempting, really. But the thought of getting back on the road with his thumb up has him thinking about how many lives he’s taken, either deserved or undeserved, and he thinks that it’s probably high time he finds his end destination for this trip. </p><p>Going back to Pontiac is always an option. Meg will be waiting for him, pissed off and irritated with “a million fucking e-mails, Clarence, do you know how much fucking <i>work</i> I’ve had to do while you were gone? I want a raise!” most likely. His employees will welcome him back even if most of them have never met him directly; people tend to work better when they know their boss is actually present and involved. His competitors will once again quiver in anticipation of his next move, but Castiel thinks he could take a break from bringing them all to their knees.</p><p>This trip has helped him work quite a bit out of his system, both physically and mentally. </p><p>As he contemplates what to do with his life, Dean starts to perk up. He’ll make jokes under his breath at the television, he’s started to eat solid food and complain that Castiel isn’t very good at cooking, and when he’s strong enough to stand for a limited amount of time without getting weak he demands Jim gives him some chores, too.</p><p>Jim puts him in charge of the kitchen and puts Castiel in charge of yard work once more. Castiel doesn’t mind. He likes mindless labor with a direct end result.</p><p>Besides, Dean is a <i>wonderful</i> cook. </p><p>It’s a weird little bubble they’ve created. Pastor Jim has only suggested Castiel leave once, and no more. He hasn’t even whispered a word of Dean moving on. Castiel sort of feels like a kid going to his uncle’s for the summer, but it also sort of feels… nice, that someone cares as much as Jim does. </p><p>Castiel almost doesn’t want to leave.</p><p>--</p><p>The bathroom door is slightly ajar. When Castiel opens it from the outside he runs chest-to-chest into Dean, who opens the door on his side and lets out a billowing cloud of steam. There’s moisture clinging to his lashes and his freckles, his body wrapped in a fluffy robe. He’s surprised to see Castiel, eyes widening and plush lips parting. Castiel’s jaw ticks slightly as he absorbs this healthy Dean, this human Dean, this Dean that can no longer kill him with a snap of his fingers. He can smell Dean’s aftershave, the little droplets of water rolling off of his feet wetting Castiel’s toes. </p><p>“My bad-” </p><p>“Apologies-”</p><p>They both close their mouths. Suddenly aware of their closeness Castiel takes a half step backwards.</p><p>“I didn’t mean to crowd you.” </p><p>“S’fine,” Dean says. He doesn’t move from the bathroom door. </p><p>Castiel waits a moment, then says a bit stiffly, “I was going to use the restroom.” </p><p>“Ok, um-” Dean shuffles. They dance past each other like they can’t actually put space between them in order to pass. Just as Castiel gets in the bathroom and Dean ends up in the hallway, Dean’s fingers shoot out to wrap around Castiel’s wrist. They don’t burn. There’s no fire or whispers licking at the back of his head. He sends Dean a curious look. “I um- I just. Wanted to say sorry. For- for all the shit. The only reason you got…” he gestures towards his own eyes. “... is ‘cause I pushed you too far. ‘Cause I was bored or thought it was funny or somethin’- I’m actually not really sure. Uh. But- yeah. You didn’t deserve everything I put you through.” </p><p>Castiel’s body relaxes slightly. “Dean. It’s in the past.” </p><p>“But it’s-” Dean’s brow furrows, like it’s hard for him to gather his thoughts. It might be. He’s still a little scrambled. “It’s gonna affect your future. Our future. And you’re gonna remember it all…” he limply lets go of Castiel’s wrist. “If we woulda met under different circumstances, we might have…” </p><p>Oh. Realization hits Castiel like a ten ton weight. Unable to hide the surprise on his face, Castiel says, “Dean, I don’t think-”</p><p>“Right-” Dean interrupts him, waving his hand and rubbing the back of his neck with the other, sending a rueful smile to the floor. “It’s stupid. It’d never work.”</p><p>“Don’t interrupt me,” Castiel says, sharp as a knife. Dean shuts up, looking at Castiel with wide eyes. “I was <i>going</i> to say that I don’t think <i>all</i> the things that have transpired between us will be reflected upon negatively. Are there things I regret? Yes. But if I hadn’t gotten into your car on that first night, the darkness would have consumed me without me realizing it… and I wouldn’t have been able to stop it. I would never have researched you, I would have never been directed towards Pastor Jim. Things happen for a reason, Dean. In the long run, I’m not necessarily thankful that we crossed paths. But in an odd way, I can be grateful that we did.” </p><p>“A’right,” Dean nods slowly, licking his lower lip in a very distracting manner before drawing it between his fang-free teeth. “So…” </p><p>Rolling his eyes, Castiel reaches up to cup the back of Dean’s neck, drawing him in for a chaste, sweet kiss. He presses his lips fully against Dean’s, feeling their wet give beneath his own, enjoying the plushness he practically bounces off of. Pulling away with a soft ‘smack’, he opens his eyes to see Dean’s blissfully closed, ginger lashes fanned over sun kissed skin. When Dean’s eyes open his pupils are dark with desire, his waterline shimmering, his fingers tangled in the front of Castiel’s shirt almost subconsciously. </p><p>“Does that clear anything up?” Castiel asks.</p><p>Dean nods dumbly.</p><p>“Good.” Castiel says neatly. “Now,” he removes Dean’s hands from his shirt by his wrists, gently nudging him away, “I need to pee.”</p><p>Dean’s laughter covers him like a warm blanket as he shuts the door behind him.</p><p>--</p><p>Adjusting to being… ‘normal’, as Pastor Jim calls it, is strange. He and Dean work together around the house and yard to keep things up to snuff. Jim doesn’t go over things with a white glove, so to speak, but he is always appreciative. Castiel refuses any sort of compensation for his chores. Dean does as well, but Castiel can’t help but wonder how he’ll get on when this chapter closes. As far as he knows Dean made his way using his demon powers or forged identities to go to and fro across the country. It’s none of his business, though. Dean’s an adult. A broken model of one, perhaps, but still his own person.</p><p>Their little affair doesn’t escalate too much. They exchange kisses, gentle touches, images of affection that Castiel has never known, either by family or potential love interests. Dean gives them out like candy, always ready to dote on Castiel with affection that Castiel sort of awkwardly returns. Dean doesn’t seem put out at Castiel’s stilted attempts. He says the effort is noted and appreciated. </p><p>One day while Dean and Jim are out, Castiel finally gathers the courage to dial Meg from Jim’s landline. It rings and rings and rings… and just when he’s preparing a monologue for a voicemail, Meg’s voice comes over the line, shrill and annoyed.</p><p>“Who is this?” </p><p>“I could dock you for etiquette,” Castiel greets dryly.</p><p>“CASTIEL!” Meg shouts, then quiets herself. The sound of a door shutting muffles softly in the background. “Holy fucking damn. Is this real?” </p><p>“If your phone said Minnesota, it’s real.” </p><p>“What the fuck are you doing in Minnesota? I thought you were going on a cross country road trip?” </p><p>“I’d rather not tell you the personal details, but Blue Earth is my last stop.” </p><p>“Thank God. When will you be back?” </p><p>“To be decided. Soon, though. I need to make arrangements and see if they are satisfactory.”</p><p>“Satisfactory to who?” Meg asks, rude as ever. </p><p>“I will potentially be bringing someone home with me.” </p><p>Silence.</p><p>More silence. </p><p>Then: “Did you elope?” </p><p>Castiel scowls. “That’s ridiculous. No. I met someone who was on a similar journey to mine and… needs to start over.”</p><p>“Since when does Castiel Novak do charity cases?” </p><p>“Since when do you have the wherewithal to question my personal, private choices?” </p><p>“Fine,” he can hear her eye roll. “Call me when you’re on your way. The instant you roll into town someone’s gonna blab and the media will be on you like stink on shit. Are you ready for that?” </p><p>“After all I’ve experienced in the past six months, I think I will be ready for anything.” </p><p>--</p><p>“What?” Some food falls out of Dean’s mouth.</p><p>Jim politely coughs into his napkin.</p><p>“I’m inviting you to Illinois with me,” Castiel says. “I usually commute to Chicago from my home in Pontiac but I’d like to buy a condo in the city. If you were to join me, then I’d like your input on where we should live.” </p><p>Dean squints, then looks at Jim. “What do you think about this?”</p><p>“This is the first I’ve heard of it,” Jim says. </p><p>Dean narrows his eyes at him. “Ain’t you gonna say something about codependency? Unhealthy attachments?”</p><p>“He isn’t your brother,” Jim replies. Castiel earmarks that. “I’ve seen you two together since the purification. Both of you are capable of operating individually, but you make a helluva team. I don’t see why that shouldn’t continue.” </p><p>Dean returns his gaze to Castiel. “And you’re sure about this? ‘Cause I’ve been to Chicago. Without all of my demon,” he lifts a hand to wiggle his fingers, “hoopla, I don’t think I’d make it. I ain’t got a G.E.D. or a resume.” </p><p>“We’ll take care of those things,” Castiel says simply. </p><p>Suddenly Dean gets a wolfish grin on his features. “You gonna be my sugar daddy, Cas?”</p><p>“I should hope that you find gainful and employment and are able to support yourself as well as keep yourself occupied,” Castiel says, pushing around some pasta on his plate. “I work long hours, but I’m planning on cutting back.”</p><p>Dean puts his elbows on the table, putting his chin in his hands as he smiles sunnily at Castiel. “You mean you want me to have a job so I’m not bored while your corporation makes buttloads of money and on the weekends I’ll be your trophy husband at all the posh events.” </p><p>Sighing, Castiel tips his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Sure.”</p><p>“Dean,” Jim says, “elbows.”</p><p>Dutifully pulling his elbows off of the table, Dean’s foot finds Castiel’s, nudging it slightly. His tone turns a bit more serious as he says, “I don’t deserve what you’re offerin’ me, Cas. But if it’s what you really want… I’m down to give it a go.” </p><p>Jim reaches out, grasping both of their shoulders and sending them affectionate smiles. “Make sure you call me to officiate.” </p><p>“Aw, but I want you to give me away,” Dean says with a grin, batting his lashes. </p><p>The small smile feels… good, where it lands on Castiel’s lips.</p><p>--</p><p>It’s chaos when Castiel comes back. Even though he’d only spoken to Meg on the phone, his arrival date still got out to the media. It was bound to happen, and he’s prepared for it. </p><p>They drove Dean’s car. They stopped in Madison to patronize a mall so they could get clothes that weren’t torn jeans and greasy t-shirts, hitting a local laundromat to make them nice and fresh. Castiel had chosen a suit, deep blue in color to bring out his eyes, his pocket square a beautiful emerald. Dean chose clean, dark jeans, along with a white button-up and a khaki colored blazer. By the time they arrive at Castiel’s corporate headquarters for a press conference he had Meg arrange, they both have aviators on their faces. </p><p>Dean’s beast of a car rolls right up to the curb. There are vans parked everywhere, the steps of the building crowded by people with cameras and microphones. Dean gets out of the car, cameras swinging towards him in curiosity. He rounds the car, clicks open the passenger door; Castiel steps out of the car and the commotion explodes, people yelling and screaming his name. </p><p>Together, he and Dean move through the crowd. Castiel told Dean not to say anything, only flash his charming smile, which has people throwing all sorts of crazy questions at them.</p><p>“Castiel! Who is this?”</p><p>“Is this your new bodyguard?”</p><p>“Is this your new boyfriend?”</p><p>“Did you go to Las Vegas and elope?”</p><p>“Did you get someone pregnant?”</p><p>“Are you returning from your honeymoon?”</p><p>“Were you in the hospital?” </p><p>Finally, after what feels like forever, he and Dean make it to the podium where Meg is waiting. Castiel gives her a nod, which she returns - they’ve never been too casual with each other - and then he turns to address the crowd. Dean stands next to Meg, who is giving him a very critical once over. </p><p>Clearing his throat, Castiel speaks into the mics propped in front of him. </p><p>“Hello. I have returned from my sabbatical. I am not at liberty to discuss my private affairs with the public, but I assure you: I am safe. My company is safe. And,” he takes off his sunglasses, folding them up and hanging them in his breast pocket next to his pocket square, “I am not married, nor a father.” </p><p>The journalists all give a friendly laugh, the tension around them lessening. One woman pushes her way to the front, tape recorder in hand. </p><p>“Will you follow through with the mergers put on hold before your sabbatical?”</p><p>Castiel nods, “All plans put on hold will resume on schedule.” </p><p>“Is it true you will be moving to Chicago? Why have you waited so long?” Another reporter asks. </p><p>“I was comfortable in my hometown. My time away, however, has proven to me that home is where you make it. I will be moving to Chicago to be able to better serve my company as well as alleviate some personal preferences.” </p><p>Another woman pushes forward, her eyes darting between Castiel and Dean. “Is this man your new bodyguard?” </p><p>“No.” </p><p>“Who is he?” Someone else asks. </p><p>Castiel sends everyone a serene smile. “No further questions.” </p><p>When he moves away from the mic Meg takes his place, distracting the media with the announcement that she will be answering further questions. Castiel and Dean slip away and make it to the car, nearly successfully pulling away until a reporter knocks on the driver window. </p><p>“Excuse me?” </p><p>Castiel leans forward to get a look at her. It’s Charlie Bradbury. “She’s not a reporter, Dean. Roll down your window.” </p><p>As soon as Dean’s window clears, Charlie’s hand shoots forward and nearly collides with his jaw. “Oops! Sorry. I wanted to get to you guys quicker but those paps nearly trampled me. Anyway, hiya! I’m Charlie. Tell me who you are.” </p><p>“Charlie is head of the IT department ,” Castiel explains. “I like her more than Meg.”</p><p>“Everyone likes anyone more than Meg,” Charlie says with a grin.</p><p>Dean takes her hand gently, “Dean.” </p><p>Charlie bats her lashes at him. “Dean, do you LARP?” </p><p>“Charlie,” Castiel leans a bit closer, “after we get a condo in town you’re more than welcome to come over and seduce Dean into Moondoor.” </p><p>“Awesome,” Charlie pulls her hand back, knocking gently on the door. “Call me if you need help with that condo, I’ve got a hookup.” </p><p>“Thank you, Charlie.” </p><p>She gives a cheerful “Bye!” before once again disappearing into the crowd. Dean pulls away from the curb, sending Castiel a raised brow. </p><p>“What’s Moondoor?” </p><p>“A wonderful pastime,” Castiel says with a small, quirked smile. </p><p>His return is causing waves. </p><p>Dean is his lifeboat.</p><p>--</p><p>Three months after settling into their new condo in Chicago, things are moving smoothly. Dean passed his G.E.D. test with flying colors. His resume is basically nonexistent, but after Castiel prodded him about skills and hobbies, Dean admitted he knew his way around a car engine. Castiel, being who he is, took Dean to a few different mechanic shops and persuaded them to allow Dean to fix up a car right there in front of them to show off his skills. They went to four mechanic shops with that agenda- Dean ended up working in the fourth auto shop, the grizzled owner frowning at Castiel as Dean worked.</p><p>“I don’t give a damn if you’re the Queen of England,” Rufus said. “If this boy’s got the stuff, I’ll take him. But you don’t scare me, sticks.” </p><p>Castiel blinked at the name.</p><p>Rufus gestured to Castiel’s body, “Ya limbs barely got any meat on ‘em. They’re like sticks.” </p><p>He had to clench his jaw and turn away to keep himself from laughing.</p><p>With Dean scheduled for the following week, he and Castiel returned back to their home to unwind. Castiel has pulled back drastically from his eighty-hour workweek, dwindling down to a modest fifty with Sundays off. Those days are reserved for Dean and Dean only. Sundays are for the bedroom, or the kitchen, or the living room- nowhere is off-limits for their time together, or time of the… undressed nature. </p><p>There are a few things that trigger old, dark memories, things that turn Dean somber or make Castiel agitated, but they tend to not talk during these flashbacks, instead choosing to just hold each other and listen to music or the wind or the rain. All in all their living together has been a success, a bond forged from tragedy and blossomed into hyacinth, their brains on the same wavelength and their bodies attuned to one another. </p><p>In the fourth month, Castiel feels itchy. </p><p>He catalogues everything to make sure that he’s not relapsing. He calls Jim to ask if there even <i>is</i> such a thing as a demon relapse, to which Jim says he’s not sure, but to keep an eye on things. He can tell Dean feels it, too, though, which worries him. If they’re both slipping, they only have each other to hold onto. </p><p>But it’s stress. Even scaled back Castiel has a lot to deal with. Idiots within his company, idiots outside of his company; idiots that can’t communicate or negotiate or come to a decision in a timely manner. During a board meeting Castiel’s brain supplies him with graphic images of him strangling his manager with the phone cord and then throwing him out of the glass window forty storeys. </p><p>What if…</p><p>What if he blew a little steam? </p><p>Took the edge off? </p><p>He knows Dean is feeling the same way. It must be residual. After being purified they’d been so busy, perhaps they didn’t notice the symptoms sooner. It’s too late to manage them now, surely; unless they take another sabbatical to go mow Jim’s lawn for a month. Castiel can’t afford to ditch his company again. It did fine in his absence, but employee morale had dropped considerably, <i>and</i> his competitors got complacent. Castiel has always been a cutthroat businessman. He’s not about to let up again so soon. </p><p>One night at dinner, he finally decides to bring it up.</p><p>“Dean,” he says. The man in question is pulling a casserole out of the oven. He makes a noise of assent to let him know he’s listening to Castiel, who is sitting at the dining room table. “Do you… feel like you need a fix?” </p><p>It takes Dean a moment to come to the dining table, setting the casserole down among the spread. He sits across from Castiel, all of his movements measured, like he’s unsure if he should answer honestly. </p><p>“Tell me.” </p><p>“Yeah,” Dean says, then follows it up with a shrug. “Dunno what to do about it, though.” </p><p>Castiel picks up his fork. “Chicago is a big city.” </p><p>“Mhm,” Dean hums, taking a bite of his casserole. </p><p>“Large population.” </p><p>“Mmm.” </p><p>“There are people who won’t be missed.” </p><p>That catches Dean’s full attention. He meets Castiel’s gaze, the candle burning between them lighting his eyes up gold and black. When he smiles the light reflects off his teeth, the illusion of them lengthening and sharpening sending a thrill down Castiel’s spine directly to his groin. </p><p>It's not real, but it's just as dangerous.</p><p>--</p><p>Hours later, covered in blood in a filthy alley, Castiel’s mouth finds Dean. A mix of blood and spit passes between their lips, teeth clacking. They pant into each other’s mouths, Dean pinned against a grimey brick wall with Castiel’s knee between his thighs. Their hips rock, hot blood cooling in the winter night. The ski masks they’re wearing rub together and generate a bit of heat for their faces. Castiel’s left hand holds a bloody knife.</p><p>Tongue tracing drops of blood slipping down Dean’s neck, Castiel undoes his pants with deft fingers, slipping in quick to grab hold of Dean’s hard cock. They share a moan at the contact, blood and precum slicking the way. Dean’s hands undo Castiel’s pants and then their cocks are sliding together, hips rocking. The high of the kill courses through them, riding on the pleasure. Castiel feels tingles down his spine, hears the whisper of Dean’s aroused moans and whimpers; he returns his mouth to Dean’s for the briefest moment before dropping to his knees and swallowing him down to the root. Dean curses and grabs the top of Castiel’s ski mask to ground himself, his cock twitching and pulsing in his mouth. It doesn’t take long for Castiel to finish him off, swallowing everything he’s given. </p><p>Standing up, Dean reverses their position. They know better than to leave DNA of any kind at the scene. But the blood is still coagulating, hot where it drips, the smell of their fresh kill infiltrating their senses and lightening their heads. Dean kneels, using his hand and his mouth to draw Castiel closer and closer to the edge. The knife in Castiel’s hand turns when he rotates his wrist, applying delicate, delicious pressure to the bolt of Dean’s jaw. He wants to nick there so bad, bring forth just a tiny droplet of blood, but resists. Orgasm creeps up on him, overtaking him when Dean’s teeth scrape over his frenulum with <i>just</i> the right amount of pressure. </p><p>When he’s sucked down the last drop Dean pulls off of Castiel’s cock, turning his head to nose at the bloody knife. Lifting his gaze, keeping eye contact, Dean’s tongue, still white-sticky with Castiel’s release, starts licking the blood off of the jagged edges of the knife. </p><p>Castiel smirks down at him, licking his own lips in approval as his spent cock blurts another drop of cum onto the cheek of Dean’s ski mask. </p><p>“You good?” Dean murmurs in his dick-rough voice, pulling away from the knife and giving one final kiss to Castiel’s softening penis. </p><p>Hauling Dean up to his feet, Castiel slides the knife into the holster of his belt, wrapping his arms around Dean’s body to press their chests together. They regulate their breathing simultaneously, and once they’re finally calm and quiet, Castiel says, </p><p>“Never better.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this story would not leave my head for five days.<br/>i hope it stays in yours for a while, too.<br/>let me know if there's any tags i should add.</p><p>similar works: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/14387244">"dirty laundry"</a>; <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/19704652">"quid pro quo"</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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